


Resist and Serve Lyric Wheel I thru IV

by ratadder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-09-30
Updated: 2001-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 18:35:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratadder/pseuds/ratadder
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Resist and Serve Lyric Wheel I thru IV

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Lyric Wheel by Ratadder

Disclaimer: All hail CC, 1013, Fox. No money made.  
Pairing: This piece is slash, but it doesn't exactly have a pairing. It's more of a prelude for confusion to come.   
Feedback: . Feed the giant snakes.   
Website: http://strangeplaces.net/ratadder/  
This story comes some years before "And Never Brought To Mind", where the confusion continues. 

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Burn Me If You Want  
by Ratadder  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Smoke wraps like a noose around my neck, but at least the flames are behind me. I clear the last door with a wild leap as I hear glass shatter too close. Rolling on the grass, I draw a clean breath for the first time in too long. My lungs ache but I'm up on my knees and then my feet and running. Limping, stumbling, but running. I'm late. Really late. I have to get to the rendezvous, check my team. 

"My" team. I almost laugh at the conceit, but I don't have the breath to spare. They'd love that. Probably shoot me outright if they ever heard me say it. But I can't help it... I think of them as mine. I have ever since I took them on when things started to fall apart, brought them into the cell. 

And we do function as a team, as much as they hate it. 

I round the corner of the self-destructing building, trying to stay clear enough to avoid flying shards of glass as more windows shatter. Rubbing frantically at my smoke-stung eyes I squint and count... there's the redhead, and there... thank god. Mulder. My breathing eases somehow, despite the fact that my lungs are still protesting every wheeze. 

As I stagger up I see Mulder's face register a flash of something I'd love to believe is relief. Again laughter tries to claw up my aching throat. As if. Then his forehead creases and he goes back to staring at the building; both of them do. Wait a minute. Both? Where's...? Fucking *hell*. 

"Skinner?" I choke. Mulder shakes his head and I whip around and stare back at the lab. The top floor is already caving inward. It's a matter of minutes. Long enough? It's going to have to be. I can't leave it... not anymore. They're mine now. 

I turn back and look at Mulder, searing him into my eyelids like the afterimages of the fires that rose too fast, then spit at him in my best deadly voice, "Don't you fucking move." I spare one glance to Scully. "Handcuff him if you have to. You know the drill. Shoot *anything* that comes out of there that isn't us." Then I'm sprinting back toward the lab, counting on the flames to keep him out if she doesn't tie him to the closest tree. 

I cross the grounds in half the time it took me a minute ago, determinedly blocking out the shooting pain in my left leg, and Scully's voice hollering my name. She's got enough sense to not go back in and she'll keep him out. I rely on that since I don't have time to think anything else. Instead of returning to the door I exited, knowing what I'm likely to find there, I head for the back of the building. Which is where Skinner's assignment should have had him exiting anyway. Through the utility door and up the stairs and I wince every time my left leg takes my weight. Judicious use of the banister finally gets me to the top. 

The smoke is already reaching this level as well. I start on a reverse course, knowing the order of actions Skinner was planning, since I forced him to go over it with me. Now I'm glad I fought him into it, despite the headache it gave me at the time. 

He hates letting me plan his missions. Has to have final say. He's such a Marine. 

The smoke thickens and I drop to my knees, crawling under it as best I can, ducking my chin into the neck of my shirt. I blink rapidly as tears start rolling from my stinging eyes, trying vainly to keep my vision free enough to spot any of The Enemy. My skin crawls with the knowledge that I'm moving back toward them... knowing they can withstand a hell of a lot more heat than I can. 

First room, check the door... not hot yet, so I push through. Nothing. On down the hall, second room, same routine, and there he is, slumped and bleeding against a desk, a lab tech collapsed over him, pinning him. Obviously they got as far as hand-to-hand. I scramble forward and manhandle the dead body off his legs, then tuck my fingers up under his chin, pressing for a pulse. 

Alive. 

His eyes open and he stares at me as if he's never seen me before. "Krycek?" His voice cracks, and I don't know if it's from pain or just smoke inhalation. 

"It ain't the angel of death. Not yet anyway. Though I've heard he's a good-looking bastard, too." The red stain on his pant's leg is nothing to the pool of blood on the floor next to his thigh. He's not walking out of here. 

Okay, looks like I drag him. 

The entire building trembles and I take hold of his arm, wrapping it around my shoulders, bending down and yanking him forward until he slumps over my back with a yowl of pain. The dead weight staggers me for a long moment, pressing me almost flat to the floor. Then I'm crawling again, far too slowly, the omnipresent thrum of time running out pounding through me. I have no idea how hurt he is, but I can't do anything about it until I get him out. Out... out... out... 

"Krycek... I'm hit. I can't... you can't..." 

"Shut up," I huff, then concentrate on saving my breath. 

"You'll n'ver get me out... you can't carry me 'n I... can't walk." His voice is slurring, and I can feel something hot and wet soaking into my shirt where he's sprawled across my back. He coughs. "Th's place... going down good. Go... get out..." 

I don't bother to answer, just work on inching myself forward on elbow and knees. Out the door, down the hall, and the smoke is thicker and this is not good. He coughs again. The floor under my hand is heating up and I can't crawl any faster, my back aching with the strain. My leg is protesting every movement and I bet I've really fucked up that knee this time. 

"Kry-" 

"Just... hold on... to me..." I manage and he thankfully falls silent. I hope he's not unconscious again, but by the time I reach the stairs I wonder if it'd be easier if he was. This is going to hurt. I start easing down them, knowing I should be trying to cushion him more but I can't think how and we have to get out NOW. He's making harsh grunts of pain but the stairs shake and I hear the rumble of another explosion somewhere below and behind us. I bump down the stairs faster, losing him at the last two steps as he slips from my grip and slides off my back. Staggering to my feet I reach back, grab his clothing, and everlastingly haul him to the utility door and through. 

Don't stop... too close. I focus everything on dragging him further away and then hands are catching me and I'm falling against them and being dragged myself. Next thing I know a wet rag is pressed to my face. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my burning eyes, and Mulder's face swims into view, totally pissed for some reason. 

"I thought you said *never* go back in, for any reason, no matter what," he shouts at me. 

I wince as I try to drag in a breath, and tilt my head sideways to see Scully bending over Skinner, bringing him around again. As his eyes blink open I refocus on Mulder. "Only I'm allowed to break my rules," I rasp. Then I pass out. 

* * *

Three hours later, Temporary Rebel Base 

"Shit, what happened to the boss-man?" 

"He broke his own rules." Mulder's voice is all ice and sarcasm, and I contemplate keeping my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. "Apparently, as usual, there's one set of rules for him and one for the rest of us." His tone tells me he's talking to me, not Rhodes. Which makes the subterfuge rather pointless. 

Oh well. I'm in a little too much pain to be able to effectively fake it anyway. I let my lids flutter up and clear my throat. Feels like I've been gargling broken glass. I try to open my mouth to tell him I'd be in this shape whether I'd broken my own rules or not, but I can't draw enough breath. 

"Scully," he snaps shortly, and next thing I know Scully's bending over me, fitting an oxygen mask over my face and telling me to breathe slow and easy. I stare at the ceiling and realize I'm back at the temporary base. After a few minutes with the oxygen I'm okay enough to breathe on my own, as long as I don't try too hard. 

"Skinner?" I rasp, as she steps back. 

"He'll be fine," she murmurs. "Get some rest." She smiles at me suddenly. "We got 'em good that time." 

As she walks off I raise an eyebrow at Mulder. "Good?" 

"Well, it's not like things are over," he drops down on the edge of my bed, still glaring at me. "But we got in a good hard hit. All our reports are saying nobody - and nothing - walked away from this one." 

I breathe out a shallow sigh of relief and let my eyes close. 

"Don't fall asleep on me, you bastard." 

Forcing my eyes back open I stare at him wearily. "What, Mulder? What now?" I'm used to not being able to do anything right for him, but Christ almighty, I just saved his old boss' life. That ought to be worth at least a break from the insults, the distrust, the sniping. 

"I don't like you changing the rules." 

"I didn't change them," I whisper. "The rules stand. Don't you ever, *ever*, go back in. For anything. We need every single person and every scrap of information, and if you're clear, that means you stay clear." 

"And what the hell do... does the resistance do without *you*?" he snaps. 

I blink up at him, confused. Does he really not know? "They follow you, idiot." I close my eyes and drop into sleep. 

* * *

Three days later, Temporary Rebel Base 

Knee wrapped and lungs back in working order, I look in on Skinner. Scully tells me he's been asking for me, and I suppose I've avoided it long enough. I can tell by the way his jaw is clenching that he's refusing pain medication. "Might as well take the meds. You're not going back out for a little while." 

His eyes flicker open and he stares up at me with that same weird look on his face he had when I crawled up to him in that office. Never one to waste time, he starts right in. "You were clear," he says softly. "They told me you were clear and out." I shrug. "You came back in," he continues. "Your rule-" 

I snort. "You and Mulder. It's my rule, I can break it." I glare at him steadily. "And only *I* can break it." 

He continues to look at me oddly, and the silence stretches uncomfortably. Finally, he clears his throat. "Thank you." 

I shuffle from one foot to the other, and back toward the door. "Don't mention it." Really. I've got an image to uphold. 

* * *

Three weeks later, Rebel Headquarters 

I stand silently as Mulder finishes his tirade and turns on heel, Scully following him. Rhodes and Seville glance at each other, and ease toward the door, guessing the strategy session is over. I let them go without comment, dropping into a chair and staring blankly at the maps on the table. I'm right, and he knows I'm right, but he can't bring himself to admit it. Can't bring himself to trust me or my judgement. 

And the worst of it is, I completely understand. 

He doesn't like my methods, and he never has and he never will. He'll come around, because he knows we don't have a choice, but he'll do it kicking and screaming and try every other possibility first. And harp at me nonstop about my lack of ethics and my amorality and my willingness to sacrifice 'expendable' people. While I stand there, and look back at him, and lift my chin, and say nothing. Suffer in silence, good little soldier. 

That's okay, Mulder. You wear your white satin robes, and I'll just wear my pride. We never did talk the same language, why should we start now. 

I hear the rest of the small group make for the door. I know it makes them uncomfortable, listening to Mulder go at me. Well, no, rephrase that. It makes them uncomfortable to listen to Mulder go at me *because* I just stand there and... let him. If I fought back they'd just enjoy the free entertainment. I know none of them get it. I cadged most of them from various outposts in the Syndicate. Most of them have no idea of my history with Mulder. All they know is *nobody* else talks to me like that. 

I know they can't figure out why I never react, when they've seen me practically put other people through the wall for a hell of a lot less. I know they have their theories. Hell, some of them are even somewhere close to the truth. Doesn't matter, really. None of it does. I couldn't care less what they're saying or thinking. 

I know what I owe and I'm not running anymore. 

As the last footsteps fade I let my forehead rest against my palm, sighing deeply. The deep voice, when it comes, startles the hell out of me and I practically jump out of my chair. 

"Just out of curiosity, why do you let him do that?" 

Covering my embarrassment at my lapse in alertness, I glare at Skinner. He, of all people... "You know my history with him," I snap shortly, getting to my feet and gathering up the maps. 

He eases up out of his chair and, leaning on his cane, makes his way over to the table. "I know *our* history, too," he offers sardonically. "You *killed* me, and you don't let me talk to you like that." 

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Have you ever listened to yourself?" I mutter. Surprisingly, he laughs, then holds his side. I shrug and stuff the maps back in a folder, avoiding his eyes. 

"All I mean is, with me, you give as good as you take," he reaches out and plucks the folder from my hand and starts reshuffling the maps and making sure all the papers line up. "You yell right back, and you've been ready to haul off and knock me one a time or three. Or seven or nine." 

I sigh. He is not the person I want to have this conversation with. Hell, there is no one I want to have this conversation with, because the fact is I don't want to have this conversation at all. But he's a stubborn bastard. As stubborn as me, I've learned. I try to figure out how to say it in a way that won't say too much. "Look. I can't... do anything about what I've done. It's done, and I did it, and that's that. I'm not going to be some repentant little sinner, wallowing in shame and regret." I turn and face him. "I've been who I was. And now I am who I am. And I can do things differently from now on. Some things." I lean forward, my hand splaying on the table, holding his eyes. My voice takes on a timbre that scares even me. "And I will. I will not add one... more... scar." 

He stares back at me, and then slowly nods. "I understand, Alex," he says softly. 

And unfortunately for me, I think he does. 

* * *

Three months later, Rebel Headquarters 

"I said, I'm going with you." 

"For fuck's sake, no. It won't work that way." I stalk down the hall, ignoring the footfalls pattering along behind me. 

"I don't care. I'm going with you and that's final." 

"Dammit, Mulder, get a clue. This is too important to risk and you *know* how the shifters have started to pick up on you. You're a liability at a meet like this and you know it. What *is* your problem?" 

He's all cool precision, voice dry. "Maybe I'd just like to be there with you when you collect." 

"Oh for-" I want to rip my hair out by the roots. I spin and go toe to toe with him. Skinner and Scully stand behind us, just watching. "You can't *honestly* think I can't be trusted at this stage of the game? What the hell would I sell you out *to*?? THEM? Give me a *break*." 

Mulder snorts. "You can't honestly expect us to take you on trust?" he mimics my words with a smirk. 

I sigh. "It would be nice, but no, I don't really expect it. Of course you've been trusting me enough to risk your *life* on my information and my say-so, but hey, what's that, right?" 

"I trust what I see, Krycek. I trust what I'm involved in. In case you hadn't noticed, I stick pretty close to you as a rule." 

I stand there and want to scream, kick, rend, pummel, shoot something. Anything. Deep inside my chest something tears, and I want to hit back, slice into him with words that will hurt as much as that just did, considering these last few months. Christ, haven't I proved anything? 

But I don't. I just stand there like always and look him right in the eye and... and nothing. Just take it all in and keep going, steady as the tides. It doesn't matter what he strikes out with; all I can do is stand there with my hand outstretched. I could hate him for it if I didn't- 

Fuck it. Not going there. 

Taking a slow, deep breath, I force my voice as flat as his. "You'd be in too much danger. This is better done alone, but would you accept if one of them came?" I gesture to Scully and Skinner without looking at them. 

He opens his mouth to protest, and I can see he *really* didn't expect that offer. He wants to be there himself. I have to wonder at his persistence, but he is after all, Mulder. He doesn't need a reason to be bull-headed about something. Is it that important to him that I stay right under his thumb? Depressing thought. 

"I suppose." He turns and stalks off, his entire bearing broadcasting his displeasure. I stare after him and then find myself turning to Scully. It's second nature by now. 

"Talk to him?" she says before the words leave my tongue. She smiles wryly at my surprise. "Sometimes I think it's what you keep me around for, Alex." 

I start to tell her how wrong she is, how important she is, when I realize she's kidding. She brushes by me and heads after him, leaving me with Skinner watching me thoughtfully. 

Christ, that's all he seems to do these days. If I had a nickel for every time I turn around and find those hawk eyes bearing down on me, I could *buy* the fucking aliens off. At least *he's* not giving me shit these days. He still doesn't like me, but he's not picking apart everything I say and peering over every piece of information I bring in like I just forged it and the ink's still wet. He's been a lot less ornery since... well, since I saved his life. Seems like I bought somebody's trust that day, for the low low price of a little smoke inhalation and a wrenched back. 

But I wish to fuck he'd stop *watching* me with that weird speculative gleam. He's seeing way too much and I'm not particularly comfortable with it. Not that he ever says anything but- 

"*What*?" I finally snap, unable to stand the silence any longer. 

He shakes his head, stepping up to me until he's toe to toe with me the way I was with Mulder just minutes ago. When he speaks, his voice is a soft murmur, so deep I have to strain to hear. "If you ever get tired of waiting, Alex, let me know." He tilts his head to one side, stares at me for another long moment, then abruptly walks away. 

I stand in the hallway, staring after him, totally confused. 

What the hell was that all about? 

~end~ 

* * *

This was written for Pollyanna's XF Lyric Wheel, where each participant was sent lyrics from someone else and had a specific amount of time to write a story inspired by those lyrics. 

Ratadder's Lyrics, courtesy of Arsenic: 
    
    
    White Gown
    by: Wolfstone
    
    You can burn me if you want
    But I won't feel the flame
    You can taunt me with your words
    But I won't feel ashamed
    You can burn your crosses down
    Until the morning light
    You can burn out my brown eyes
    But I won't lose my sight
    You can cast at me the first stone
    I'll cast it to the floor
    You can try to clip my wings
    Over mountains I will soar
    You can wear your white satin robes
    And I will wear my pride
    And to hold me back you may as well
    Hold back the morning tide
    
    With your white gown, handed down
    Fills my heart with pain
    With your white gown, handed down
    Fills you up with shame
    
    You can offer me resistance
    I will offer you my hand
    For a man who has lost his soul
    Is like the drifting sand
    You can strike me if you want to
    I won't cause you any pain
    For as long as you don't carry scars
    I won't carry blame
    
    With your white gown, handed down
    Fills my heart with pain
    With your white gown, handed down
    Fills you up with shame
    
    You can burn me if you want to
    But I won't feel the flame
    You can taunt me with your words
    But I won't feel ashamed
    You can think of me running scared
    But run it from your mind
    I'll stand and look you in the eye
    Until the end of time 
    

 

* * *

 

Disclaimer: All hail CC, 1013, Fox. No money made.  
Feedback: Feed the giant snakes.   
Website: http://strangeplaces.net/ratadder/  
This story occurs shortly after "Burn Me If You Want". 

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Don't Call Me Lois...  
by Ratadder  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Rebel Headquarters  
18:45 hours 

"Hey yo... where's the boss-man?" 

I can't stop my automatic perk at the words, even when I know they aren't referring to me. Hell, Rhodes isn't even *talking* to me. But I'm the boss, dammit. Thinking of someone else as the 'boss' is still a reach. Especially... him. 

Getting easier though. 

And boy, if that thought doesn't make me wince I don't know what would. 

I go back to my stretches and listen halfheartedly to Seville's brief answer. A full five minutes later I realize that the destination she named, and the destination I happen to know Krycek is at, are two very different places. I bring myself slowly to an upright position, wait for the moment of dizziness to pass, then catch her eye. "Where did you say he is?" 

She gives me the blank look I'm used to from her. Months of working with her, and I could swear I've seen more expression on a cat. At first I thought she didn't trust me, being former FBI. I mentioned it once though, and Krycek just brushed it off with a "she's like that; most of them are." Too true... most of the former Syndicate people, himself included, love to play the inscrutable. Must have been in their training. 

Makes me wonder again who fucked up and hired Luis Cardinale. 

"Routine reconnaissance," she repeats. "Sector seven. It's on the roster." 

So I didn't hear her wrong. I blink and open my mouth again, but something in me shuts it without speaking. Her head tilts to one side and she stares back at me steadily. I manage a quick nod and turn away. Sometimes her demeanor just makes my skin crawl. Mulder keeps joking that she's checking me out. I just pray nightly that he doesn't say it sometime in her hearing. I always wonder if I'd live to the next morning. Or if he would. 

Well, no, actually it's a foregone conclusion she wouldn't touch him. Wouldn't dare harm a hair on his precious head. None of them would. They all Know by now. My mouth twists in a smile that probably doesn't look any too happy. Sometimes I think everyone Knows, except Mulder himself. Scully certainly does. I'm beginning to think it's why she finally warmed up to Krycek at all. The rebellion's Superman has extended his golden arc of protection firmly around the rebellion's answer to Lois Lane, whether Lois knows it or not. Whether Lois wants it or not. Which means Scully can stop worrying about Lois quite so much. 

That's got to be a relief. Rescuing Mulder can be a full time job even in good circumstances. And Metropolis hasn't seen circumstances this bad in a long time. 

Rotating my shoulders, I ease back into my stretching routine. Too many injuries in too short a time to an aging body. Still, I'm holding my own. Could be worse. Would be worse, without a little help from Krycek. 

Little help. Right. How about a little restraint with that understatement, Walter? 

Okay, so maybe I still have a tiny bit of trouble wrapping my mind around Alex Krycek getting clear of a burning, collapsing, alien-infested Syndicate lab, and then *going back in*. To get me out. 

I mean the ultimate survive-at-all-costs posterboy putting his ass on the line that blatantly for someone else? It strikes one as just a tad... inconceivable. 'Noble' and 'self-sacrificing' simply aren't words you find in the Krycek Operating Manual. In fact, if found in the current Krycek model, there's undoubtedly a line in that manual recommending returning the particular Krycek in question to the manufacturer for malfunction. Hell, I was surprised enough he was apparently risking his neck for the Cause; I was sure he was running another game on the side. But putting himself in direct danger for a lowly *person*? One he doesn't even like? 

Granted, now, given what I've seen since the world took a turn for the surreal, I'd buy him risking his own ass for Mulder. 

But for *me*? 

Seriously injured and safely out of the building. Job done and lab set to destruct. Mulder safe. And he turns around and walks back in. Almost dies. Just to physically drag me out. Me. A guy he'd already killed. 

Does risking your life to save someone cancel out killing him, I wonder. 

I short out the entire line of thinking before I can get caught in the endless feedback loop that takes up way too much of my headspace these days. All I know for sure is it makes it damn hard to hate the bastard unreservedly anymore. Which is no end of annoying. Of course, it opens up other interesting possibilities... 

I short out that line of thinking, too. 

So yeah, my health could be worse. Much worse. Like I could be mostly dead, without that little helping hand from the boy in charge. 

The boy in charge who is most definitely *not* doing routine reconnaissance in sector seven. 

He's in sector one, danger zone central, chatting up an old Syndicate playmate. And he made damn sure I knew. Reexamining my memory of the conversation, I determine I was definitely the only person around. So... either Seville screwed up, or the roster is wrong, or... or for some unknown reason, I'm the only one who knows where Krycek really is. 

I wonder if it's significant. 

I hope he remembered his fancy blue suit and red cape. I have a feeling he' s going to need them. 

* * *

02:35 hours 

I stare at the ceiling in the dark and tell myself I'm not consciously waiting up for him. I'm just having trouble sleeping. It happens sometimes. 

Hell. I'm waiting up for him. 

Nobody thinks twice that he was due in three hours ago. He's only out checking sector seven; nobody is particularly concerned. Sector seven hasn' t seen activity since we cleaned it out in the first set of raids. If he really were only checking sector seven, I wouldn't be concerned either. 

Well, maybe a little concerned. But not much. I wouldn't be sleepless, at any rate. 

Yeah right. Keep telling yourself that, Walter. 

And nobody says anything to *him* if he doesn't call in. Oh no. *He* can do whatever he wants. 

Arrogant bastard. 

I listen to Mulder snoring across the room, and am thankful that at least he 's asleep tonight. He and Scully must have had a hell of a shift. He just about collapsed when he rolled in, and he hasn't moved since, which is very unusual for the king of insomnia. I've had more than enough experience with his sleep disorders to make me regret agreeing to bunk with him. Except it does come in handy at times. Like now for instance, when I hear the door twist open softly, and see the dim glow of utility lights from the hallway illuminate the battered shadow glancing into the room, staring at Mulder's sleeping form, then backing out and closing the door silently after himself. 

Rooming with Mulder is better than being on 24-hour front-door guard duty for knowing when Alex Krycek gets in. 

And people think I agreed to the rooming arrangements because Mulder and I get along so well. Please. He's a great guy, but like I didn't get enough of him when he worked for me... 

I reach for my glasses and ease out of bed immediately. I slink to the door, knowing that no matter how tired he is, Mulder is a light sleeper. I could definitely do without him waking up. Slipping out into the hall, I catch sight of my shadow-quarry turning the corner off to the right. I ghost behind him through the warren of underground tunnels, and follow him up Ladder Three. 

He's had a hard night. I can see by the way he's walking. He didn't look so great in that brief moment of light in the doorway, either. Of course, it's a foregone conclusion he's had a hard night if he hasn't hidden around a corner and pounced out at me like a demented ninja. He hates being followed and doesn't mind letting you know it. Violently. He's off his game if he hasn't even noticed me trailing behind him yet. 

By the time I ascend Ladder Three he's disappeared, but from here I know where he'll be. He hates being underground. One of the first things that impressed me about him, actually, was when I found out how *much* he hates being underground. Given how much time we all spend down here, he's got to be working with that on a daily, if not hourly, basis. He'll be in the room with the starry sky. 

We thought it was a joke, originally, and a sick one at that. One room in this barren underground complex that he painted with a black ceiling, little dots of glow-in-the-dark paint tracing glimmering paths of stars. Then I noticed how often he ended up in there. 

And that's where I find him. Sitting on the floor, arms around his knees, back to me, staring at his sky. I just stand in the door and watch him, thinking I maybe should have grabbed my sweatshirt. The complex is cool. The rasp of his voice breaks the silence. 

"Gonna stand there all night, Skinner?" 

I move into the dark room and drop down beside him. Close enough so I can feel the heat of him, far enough away to not even accidentally brush against him. I know how to do careful. We sit in silence for long moments. 

"Wouldn't think it would actually help, would you." 

"Whatever works, Alex." And when the hell did he become Alex? Around the day he hauled you out of a burning building, my mind answers sarcastically. 

"I mean it's dark," he murmurs. "Which definitely isn't friendly. And it's not like the stars are that reassuring these days." 

"No, it makes sense. The illusion of space is actually... quite effective. The dark enhances the illusion where stark light would destroy it. It would work even better in a domed room, of course." 

"Of course. How'd you know I was in. I came through the back way. I haven 't even checked back in yet." 

I shrug nonchalantly. "I was awake when you did nightly bed check on Mulder. I can vouch that he's all tucked in safe and sound." I feel him stiffen beside me and I wince. Whoops. Sorry, did that sound bitter? Bad Walter. Change the subject. "You weren't in sector seven tonight." 

"Didn't say I was." 

"The roster did." 

"You know better than to believe the roster when it comes to me." He stares fixedly at his sky. 

"Yes, but this time I knew where you were. You told me." 

"And?" 

I clear my throat and bite back annoyance. My voice hardens despite my best efforts. "You might have mentioned to me that you were clueing me into a state secret there. I might have slipped up. If you went to the trouble to fake the roster, you obviously weren't too keen on having people know you were in sector one." 

"No, I didn't want anyone knowing." 

I turn and glare at him. "All the more reason to let me know when you're telling me something that's for my ears only." And why are you telling me things for my ears only? The question hangs in the air but I don't ask it and of course he doesn't answer it. 

"Did you slip up? Did you say anything to anyone when you found out where I supposedly was?" he asks calmly, instead. 

"No." 

"And would you have brought up where I was with anyone, if you hadn't heard where I was supposed to be?" 

"No." It's automatic. I don't talk about any information he discusses with me. Ever. With anyone. I realize it as I speak. 

"Didn't need to worry about it then, did I." He smiles. 

"Jesus, Krycek. I might have. If it was important that your whereabouts remain-" 

"Skinner." He cuts me off, his voice tired. "Relax. Why should I say it. I don't need to. You always know what to do, and you hate it when I give you 'orders'. I don't need to worry about you." He snorts suddenly. "Except when you go get stuck in a burning building with multiple gunshot wounds, surrounded by Syndicate scientists and budding colonists." 

I blink. He doesn't usually bring that up. He *must* be tired. A funny thought hits me and I chortle. He finally looks at me and quirks an eyebrow. I can't resist. "You ever see White Christmas?" 

And suddenly he's laughing. Practically choking, whether because he's trying to keep quiet or because he's forgotten how laughter works. Giggling and snorting he meets my eyes and we both reach for our left arms, cradle them against our chests, and chorus "Well, if you'd rather just forget about it, Captain Wallace..." All told, he does a better injured and guilt-tripping Danny Kaye than I do. 

He shakes silently beside me for another few minutes, then wipes his eyes and sighs. Holding out his left arm in front of us he looks at it critically. "At least I can't blame this on saving you." 

"No, but you could rub that left knee and make cow eyes," I toss off. "That one is definitely my fault. And then what... I'm supposed to give in to whatever you say." Oh god. Don't go there, Walter. 

"Yeah, but somehow I just don't see us taking Broadway by storm," he offers seriously. 

"Stranger things have happened." 

"I suppose." 

"Where were you." 

"You know. Sector one." 

"Yes, I know that much. I mean where were you for so long? You were due back hours ago. How did it go? And why do you look like something the cat dragged in." Why did you tell me where you were going. 

"Oh thank you." He tosses me a wry smile. 

"Come on, Krycek. You clued me in for a reason. Where were you." 

He sighs, and looks up again. "I took a walk around the world to ease my troubled mind," he murmurs softly. 

Oh just great. He's in one of *those* moods. It takes everything in me not to sigh. "Translation," I deadpan instead. 

He smiles again, just a tiny twist of his lips, and cocks his head at me. Christ, those lashes. I really could have used never having to notice them again. "Mind if I shut the door?" 

I shrug in response. He gets up, closes the door. I hear his footfalls as he comes back, feel him lower himself to the floor again. Is he closer to me? Without the light creeping in from the hall the room is totally dark now, the weak glow of the stars nowhere near enough to actually illuminate anything. Suddenly his sky looks even more real. 

"Translation. I think I've found Samantha." 

I stop breathing. I mean it. I literally stop breathing. When I start up again my breath sounds horribly loud in the small closed room. "But... she... I thought... how..." I force myself to shut up and think before I try to engage tongue. "I thought she was dead," I finally manage, and notice as an afterthought that my voice is hushed, as if I don't want to say it out loud. 

His snort isn't hushed at all. "Please. You bought that twinkle-twinkle-little-Samantha story? 'Starlight' took her? What the fuck was that? Honestly, when I heard about that I actually thought Mulder may have finally knocked a screw loose." 

Finally? What was your first clue, Alex. I bite my tongue. Not a conversation I want to have. Hell, there are so many conversations we can't have. Makes talking hard sometimes. "So she's definitely alive." 

"I believe she is. This... contact I was seeing. He's a good one. Reinhold knows what he's talking about, or he doesn't talk." 

"Why'd he come to you with this." 

"Because I've had feelers out on Samantha for years." 

Why doesn't that surprise me. "Jesus. Really are bound and determined to be Superman, aren't you." 

"I'm sorry?" 

I almost laugh at the perplexed note in his voice. "Nothing. I'm just waiting for you to fly around the world so fast you'll turn back time." 

"Either I'm more tired than I think I am, or you are making no sense, Skinner." 

"I stopped making sense when I left the FBI," I mutter. 

"No, actually you started making sense when you left the FBI." 

I smile into the dark. He doesn't know how right he is. Oh, who am I kidding. He knows exactly how right he is. I stare up at the painted ceiling that, no matter what I say to him, is always only a painted ceiling for me. "Samantha. Alive. Why'd you tell me?" 

"I want you in on this. Only you. He can't know. Anything. Not until I have her in my hands. You know it's getting more and more dangerous for him out there. And he'd be all over this. He wouldn't let anybody keep him out if he knew." 

"Why me." 

"Because you understand. And I trust you." 

My breath stops again, but only for a bare moment this time. I wait for the 'as much as I trust anyone' to be tacked onto the end of that sentence, but the room is too quiet. 

"I need someone to know," he suddenly begins speaking again. "I have to talk this over with someone. I'm going to need a back up, someone to be in on this with me, help me get her. And it's got to be you. I don't trust Scully not to tell him. She'd think he'd have a right to know, even if-" 

The silence lasts longer this time. Finally I finish the sentence for him. "Even if she's better off not found." 

"Yeah." 

"You're assuming I'll let you kill her if that's what's best." 

"He already thinks she's dead. Supposedly. If need be, we can bring him final proof. Proof that will be a lot more substantial than his... starlight encounter. Scully would never understand that." 

"And I do?" 

"I think you do. Besides, it would only be under extreme extenuating circumstances that a termination would become necessary. Keeping her alive is top priority. But we just have to acknowledge the possibility. Really though, I just don't want him to get his hopes up if there's a chance in hell I won't get her out. I mean, I still don't know. I'm not sure." His voice gets strained. "There may be nothing I can do. And I definitely do *not* want him involved in any way, shape or form. Not only would it be a total disaster and reduce our chances, but he'd also drive me completely berserk in the process. And if he knows, and then we can't get her out..." 

"Then there goes Superman's reputation." 

"What is it with that?" His voice is edgy. 

"With what?" I ask innocently. 

"What's this Superman shit? And why do I get the feeling that isn't exactly a compliment coming from you." 

I smile wider. Perceptive boy. "You've just got this whole Man of Steel thing going lately." 

There's that snort again. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "More like Man of Electronics," he mutters caustically. I hear a muffled thunk and realize he's knocking on his prosthetic. 

"I'm just saying you're doing the super-human thing really well these days," I offer dryly. "But you might want to remember you're still mostly human. Unless there's something you're not telling us about all your one-on-one meets with the rebels." 

"I don't get where you're going with this." 

He sounds honestly quizzical, and I find the nuances of his voice easier to read when I'm not trying to decipher his expressions. I should talk to him in the dark more often. I think for a moment and try again. I don't exactly know how to say what I mean. "Alex, you once told me you didn't have any intention of wallowing in guilt and regret. That you couldn't change who you used to be, you could only be someone different. Well, all I 'm saying is remember that the someone different that you are, is still you. And still just a human. Sainthood isn't anymore balanced than sinner." 

He's laughing again, and when I realize what I've said, I start laughing too. Laughing with him is... oddly nice. 

"Oh... oh fuck. *Sainthood*?" 

"Okay, so maybe it was a bad example. Poor choice of words..." 

"I'll say. You're about to be struck by lightning even as we speak. I'm moving across the room to get out of the line of divine fire." 

"Cute." I'm still snickering. Canonizing Alex Krycek does have an absurd ring to it. "The Church of Sinner Krycek the Betrayer?" 

"Hey, you know, you take for granted all the times I *didn't* let you down. You just don't know it," he retorts through that rusty laugh. 

That makes me feel good - the occasional inference that even in the dark days there was more going on with him. One of these days I'm going to sit him down and force him to actually elaborate on those comments. I have my own ideas, but I want to hear what he has to say for himself. 

But not tonight. Tonight, I wait for the laughter to fade and try again. "Look, all I'm really saying is... be careful. For a guy who claims not to be ashamed of who and what he was, you're throwing yourself into this 'saving the world' with a little too much force and abandon for comfort sometimes. You've got your steel walls up 24-7, and nothing can touch you. We've all started thinking of you that way." 

When nothing but the sound of his breathing reaches my ears for long moments, I continue, pushing the envelope just that much further. What the hell... it's dark. If he wants to kill me, hopefully not being able to see me will slow him up a little. "I know you want to give your Lois Lane the world on a big, beautiful alien-free platter. Maybe with CGB Spender's head on top for garnish, and Samantha as the chaser to end all chasers. But Alex... just remember that you're *not* untouchable." I leave it vague. Let him interpret that last statement however he wants. I can think of at least three variations, and in a way I mean all three of them. 

All the layers of everything I want to say thrum through my head. But hey, he *is* a perceptive boy. He'll either get it or he won't. 

I noisily get to my feet, cueing him that I'm getting ready to leave. "Time for me to get some sleep. I'm assuming you and I are going to be having some long meetings tomorrow. I'm in, of course. And I won't mention anything to anyone; that goes without saying. Operation Twinkle, in effect as of now." 

A soft, breathy laugh reaches my ears, very different from the choked hilarity I've been hearing tonight. I'm at the door with it already partway open when I hear his voice. 

"Skinner." 

Pausing, I turn back. He still sits exactly as I first found him, staring up at his fading stars. "Hmm?" I wander back in a few steps until I'm behind him, leaving the door open in back of me and just watching him in the low light from the hall. 

"Does... ah... 'Lois'... know?" 

I hear what the question costs him, in the low, rough husk of his voice. See it in the tight set of his shoulders and neck. Feel it in the tension resonating from him. "Lois is rather self-involved, and therefore rather clueless," I finally say wryly. "Rather like his namesake ace reporter if I remember correctly." 

"Hey, Lois was a sharp girl," he responds, tone just a bit brittle, working hard to cover it with the light banter. 

"Please!" I scoff. "She was fooled by a pair of glasses. Let's hear it for the dumbest disguise in history." 

"Yeah, well, my disguise is a lot thicker than a pair of glasses," he murmurs. 

"Sorry to say, Alex my boy, but you don't *have* a Clark Kent side." 

"Hey!" 

"Or if you did, he died with an ashtray full of cigarette butts in a Bureau-issue car." I hear his sigh, and almost wish I hadn't said it, but he has to face facts. "You've got your Lex Luthor side, and you've got your Man of Steel attempt," I offer, trying to strike a lighter tone again. "An even more nicely psychotic split-personality than the usual superhero/mild-mannered alter-ego." 

"Thanks for these encouraging little conversations, Skinner," he says dryly. 

"Anytime." I let him hear the grin in my voice. 

He clears his throat. "Well, anyway. Lois *was* a sharp girl. She wasn't so much fooled by a pair of glasses, in my opinion. She just... didn't want to see what was right in front of her." 

"And the same could be said for your Lois," I murmur softly. 

"He's got reason," Alex replies immediately. 

"That he does." 

"You really are a font of unwanted wisdom, aren't you." 

"Sorry," I offer unapologetically. There's only so much I can be expected to resist. Pointing out the speed bumps and detour signs on his road to Mulder is a benign enough diversion. Keeps me from breaking down and somehow actively sabotaging his nonexistent chances with Mulder. "Good night, Alex." This time I don't even get fully turned around before his voice catches me. 

"Walter?" 

"Yes?" 

This time I can hear the smile in his voice. "If I go crazy one of these days will you still call me Superman..." 

My hand lifts, reaches, almost settles in the soft black hair, spiky and mussed. Almost. "You won't go crazy, Alex." My fingers curl and my hand drops back to my side, aching with the almost-sensation. 

"You sound so sure." 

"I am. Hang in there. Besides, all the best superheroes are a little crazy. My favorite was always Batman. A true psychotic if there ever was one." On that note, I head for the door. 

His voice follows me out into the hall. "You got good taste, Skinner." 

You don't know the half of it, boy. Nothing but the best. 

~end~ 

This story was written for Pollyanna's XF Lyric Wheel, where each participant is sent a set of lyrics by someone else, and has a specific time-period to write a story inspired by those lyrics. 

Ratadder's lyrics, courtesy of Jo 
    
    
    KRYPTONITE by 3 DOORS DOWN
    
    I took a walk around the world to
    Ease my troubled mind
    I left my body laying somewhere
    In the sands of time
    I watched the world float to the dark
    Side of the moon
    I feel there is nothing I can do, yeah
    
    I watched the world float to the
    Dark side of the moon
    After all I knew it had to be something
    To do with you
    I really don't mind what happens now and then
    As long as you'll be my friend at the end
    
    If I go crazy then will you still
    Call me Superman
    If I'm alive and well, will you be
    There holding my hand
    I'll keep you by my side with
    My superman might
    Kryptonite
    
    You called me strong, you called me weak,
    But still your secrets I will keep
    You took for granted all the times I
    Never let you down
    You stumbled in and bumped your head, if
    Not for me then you would be dead
    I picked you up and put you back
    On solid ground
    
    If I go crazy then will you still
    Call me Superman
    If I'm alive and well, will you be
    There holding my hand
    I'll keep you by my side with my
    Superman might
    Kryptonite
    Yeah!!
    
    If I go crazy then will you still
    Call me Superman
    If I'm alive and well, will you be there
    Holding my hand
    I'l keep you by my side with
    My superhuman
    Kryptonite 
    

 

* * *

 

Posting for the snakeboy again. Please direct feedback to him at the snake addy below. Thanks kindly.  
More on the way soon. He's being unusually prolific these days.  
cheers,  
Alex

Disclaimer: All hail CC, 1013, Fox. No money made.  
Feedback: Feed the giant snakes.  
Written for Pollyanna's XF Lyric Wheel. Lyrics are below the story.  
Beta Thanks: Wheel stories are, by rule, supposed to be unbeta'd. This was indeed posted to the Wheel without that benefit. (I can follow all rules except length, and occasionally deadlines.) Since then, this story has received the coveted Paula's Stamp of Approval. She makes everything she touches better.  
This story is part of the growing songverse, that is now getting large enough to need a Series name. Suggestions welcome. I have a hard enough time naming my stories.

In order by plot, they are:  
Burn Me If You Want  
Don't Call Me Lois  
Under the Covers  
Optimism Oxygen And Never Brought to Mind  
Still Burning

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Under the Covers  
By Ratadder  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rebel Headquarters  
13:47 hours

I open the door to my room as silently as I can, hoping he's asleep. The unmoving lump under the gray blanket encourages me. The dim glow of a wall-plug nightlight shows closed eyes and deep, regular breathing. I slip in and ease the door shut again, wincing at the click of the latch.

Something in me resents being this old and living like a college student trying not to wake up his roommate. Something else advises me that there are worse alternatives out there. I've seen some of them.

Times like this I do miss Crystal City though. I'd gotten used to living alone after Sharon left. Got to liking it.

And if I ever expected to have another person living with me again, Mulder is about the last one I would have selected to move in - a raging insomniac with a head packed full of trivia and almost no impulse control. Not to mention the mood swings. I glare down at the remains of his clothes scattered on his side of the floor. And a slob to boot. I fight the urge to confiscate his things until he can learn to clean up after himself. It's not worth it.

Worse alternatives, Walt. Definitely worse alternatives. I could be back in Crystal City, putting on my tie every morning and trying to match my suit to the exact shade of black oil swimming across my eyes.

Sometimes it exhausts me just thinking about how many national and international leaders are doing just that these days. So I try not to spend a lot of time thinking about it. In fact, I consciously put it out of my head as much as possible, except for when we get the latest updates on the spread. We've been holding them steady for the last four months. Damn good if I do say so myself.

I pad across the small room in damp socks, carrying the heavy boots I removed out in the hallway. See, like a nice *considerate* roommate, Mulder. Unlike you clomping back in after one of your shifts, not caring if I'm awake or asleep. I step over a discarded sweatshirt that sure as hell isn't mine. Easing down onto my bed, I lean over to tuck my boots underneath then lift slowly back to a sitting position. And meet the gleam of perfectly alert eyes staring at me from the bunk across the room.

Shit. Where would you rather be? Anywhere but here.

"You could have told me you were awake and saved me the trouble of tiptoeing around."

He lifts himself on one elbow, face impassive. "And ruin my reputation for 'never making things easy'? I don't think so."

Uh oh. Sounds like somebody's pissed at me for siding with Krycek against him yesterday afternoon. He probably kept himself awake on irritation alone, even though he has to be on duty again in... a little less than four hours. I peel off my socks and wiggle my relieved toes in the cool air. "Mulder, give it a rest. He was right and you knew it, and you were being plain damn obstinate and you knew that too. What do you want me to say? What we're doing is too damn important to play personality games. It's getting more dangerous for you out there every day. He lets you risk your life on a regular basis. Isn't that enough? He has to let you go out and actively commit suicide too? Sorry, but I'm not going to stand around and cheer you on, just because you- we've got old grudges with him."

He stares at me for long moments and I wonder if he's going to press me on that slip. I'm tired. Talking to him these days is always a challenge given what I know that he doesn't, and me being tired is a good reason to avoid conversation completely. But finally he shrugs and looks away. "That's just it, Walt." He flops back down onto his back and glares at the ceiling, then at me. "Him *letting* me do anything. Are you going to tell me it doesn't bother you at all to take orders from... *him*?"

My mouth opens but I have to stop my immediate answer. Think for a minute. It certainly used to, but I was about to say just the opposite. Does it still bother me? I turn it over in my mind. Well, yes. To be completely honest, it still does. I shake my head slowly. "No, I'm not going to tell you it doesn't bother me. It's definitely odd, and there are moments..." I pause, remembering the first time Krycek told me to take out the surviving experiments at one of the first labs we hit. Because we didn't have enough time to save them.

Not that we couldn't save them... we could. That was the damnable part of it. We weren't blowing the labs yet, still keeping a lower profile. And there they were, all grouped in a room together, easy as you please. But we didn't have *enough* time. Taking out the computer systems took longer than expected. We couldn't save the survivors and still be assured we could get our entire team out clean. And our team had to take precedence. Not only do we need every single person we have, but we also can't risk leaving anyone behind that has any information about the resistance anywhere in their brain. And one of the first cardinal rules of the rebellion - you don't leave anything for the Colonists. Nothing they can use. Nothing they can salvage. Whether it be data, equipment... or people. If you can't save victims and stay clean doing it, you kill them.

But staring at a roomful of women who had never done anything but have the misfortune of getting abducted, I couldn't. He had to do it. And he did. Right in front of me. I almost shot him myself. He must have seen it on my face, because he took my gun before I even realized he was moving. *And* stayed behind me the whole way out. Swearing at me the entire time.

We stayed clean by the clock, but I felt as dirty as I ever had sitting under a cloud of cigarette smoke to keep my pension. Dirtier.

He and I had our first big knock-down drag-out after that incident. The first since I stopped actively spitting and hissing about working with him at all, that is. I told him flat out what I thought of his resistance, and his tactics, and his priorities, and his fucking "rules". Gave him a perfect right hook that staggered him, too. He shook it off, realigned his swelling jaw, looked me in the eye and told *me* flat out that I could be as morally outraged as I wanted, but if I planned to continue being useless to him, he was taking me out of rotation. Then he walked off.

We had the same fight more than once, variations on a theme. Sometimes with the right hook, sometimes without. I never got over being surprised he never hit back. I know he wanted to. It never got any easier to let him have the final word. It did eventually get easier to... understand. We aren't running search and rescue missions. We can't. We're running search and destroy. We're trying to save the entire planet, not the individuals already lost to the Colonists. The more I saw of the pure *stealth* of what we were up against, the more I realized his ruthlessness had a necessity, and my 'rightness' had a... much as I hate to admit it... naivete.

But it never stopped bothering me. And I can't say it doesn't bother me to take orders from him. Partly because I don't like the orders, and partly because it's him giving them. Internally I've never stopped kicking... even when my precious sense of honor has become nothing but a creaking shield of rusty wire I hold up against the chaos. The chaos the world has become... and my own chaos.

But *something* is different. It's not so much that it's any easier to take his orders, or that I've changed... my tired brain turns it over and over, trying to figure out why my knee-jerk reaction to Mulder's sarcastic question had been 'no, it doesn't bother me'.

Now that I think about it, it's almost like... he doesn't exactly give me orders any more.

Suddenly I realize Mulder is talking. I sigh. Sometimes it seems like Mulder is always talking. "What?" I interrupt tiredly. He stops midstream and gives me an annoyed look. Sure Mulder, like you've never mentally wandered while *I* was talking. Give me a break. I'm exhausted. And I'm sitting on a secret that's eating me alive. Actually a couple secrets, if I'm honest with myself. No, at least three...

"I *said* if it bothers you, and you understand, why are you backing him against me?"

I'm betting he said a lot more than that, from the look on his face. I take in his sullen expression, clear even in the shadows, and wonder if he's more pissed because he knows Krycek is right, or because he expects me to side with him against Krycek just on principle, no matter the issue. I feel bad. He and I used to be united in our distaste and distrust for our mutual nemesis, even after we saw the writing on the wall and joined forces with him. It was one of the few places that Mulder's and my own divergent personalities found fertile common ground. I remember early conversations in this shared space, in these very beds, bitching to each other across the room about the galling aspects of working with a resistance *led* by Alex Krycek. Of letting Krycek plan our missions. Letting Krycek have final okay on major decisions. Letting Krycek's situational ethics dictate the resistance's philosophy. In a way, it feels like I'm betraying Mulder all over again when I open my mouth and slowly spit out the truth as it now stands.

"Try to understand I'm not ganging up on you. It may still irk me to take orders from him, and I can absolutely understand why it bothers you, but I'm enough of a pragmatist and enough of a *strategist* that it doesn't bother me to agree with someone who is making sense. Someone who knows what he's talking about, knows the enemy. Which, in this case, Krycek is and does. You were the one using that logic to get me to agree to working with him in the first place." And do we have to do this now? I'm really tired.

"Well, at the time, I didn't know he was going to turn you into second-in-command," Mulder snaps sarcastically. "Or that you were going to give in and support whatever he says in return for the privilege."

Good *God*. Is that it? Is that what's bothering him? He's *jealous*? I almost break out laughing except I know Mulder doesn't respond well to being laughed at. He thinks Krycek is making *me* second-in-command? It's just so ludicrous. If he only knew that the reason Krycek spends so much time with me lately is because of *him*...

But of course that's one of my little secrets.

"Mulder, you have *got* to be kidding. First off, I resent the implication that I'd 'give in' to anyone to get authority." I gave that up when I told Spender to kiss off, and I swore off it for good when I walked out on the Bureau to throw in with the vigilante method of world-saving. How the hell else I'm supposed to prove it to Mulder, I can only guess. "Second, if there's any second-in-command of this dog and pony show, you damn well know it's you. We all do. Even the Rebels do."

He blinks at me, but I can't read his face in the thick dark. But his voice is somehow more conciliatory when he says, "He treats you different than he treats the rest of us. He doesn't tell you what to do. He *asks* you."

I blink back at Mulder. He does? Even though I was mentally coming to almost the exact same conclusion just a few minutes ago, it's somehow more real to hear Mr. Behavioral Specialist Profiler say it out loud. Krycek *treats* me different? Hunh. Don't go there, Walt. It's never pretty when you delude yourself, and don't get your hopes up about something that you're still so conflicted about, you don't even know if you *want* to get your hopes up.

Just remember how different he treats Mulder when you feel yourself wavering.

The thought is more than enough to force me back on track. Predictable Mulder... so observant and so fucking blind at the same time. He's bitching about Krycek being *nicer* to me, when the idiot would realize Alex is head over heels for him if he'd just open his damn fool eyes. More 'secrets' I'm not supposed to talk to him about, even though it's hardly a secret. To anyone but Mulder. Poor Alex... I don't think he has a clue how obvious he is.

Poor Alex? Jesus, did I actually just *think* that? I am beyond overtired.

I rub my temples and try to center my thoughts. "Mulder, I know it rubs you wrong to work with him, and I know you're pissed that your... telepathy," I still have trouble saying it, "with Them puts you at a greater risk than the rest of us. It would frustrate me too. And he's the one that has to keep reining you in because of it, which just makes both annoyances worse. But can you at least try not to take it out on me?" Especially when all I want to do is go to sleep. "This isn't about siding with him *against* you. It's about agreeing that you're endangering yourself, and no amount of goading me over Krycek is going to get me to reverse my thinking on that. But more than that, you can't just expect me to always disagree with him just because of who he was. Who he is," I correct myself automatically. One of my few indulgences... *not* discussing with Mulder my niggling suspicions about how much Krycek has changed over time. If he wants to ignore it, that's his business. "Can I remind you, once again, that *you* were the one dragging me into working with him?"

Mulder sighs heavily and avoids my gaze, studying the ceiling again. "His information was checking out," he mumbles defensively. "And things were hitting the critical stage and official channels were getting more and more dangerous and... I didn't see any other option."

I fight not to roll my eyes. "You don't have to apologize. It's not what either one of us expected, but we're both here and I think by now we both know that whatever else, he is honestly trying to stop the Colonists. Yes? Alright then. That's... got to be enough."

"I know. Logically, I know all that." Mulder rolls over onto his side again and props up his head on one hand. "Sometimes I just still wake up in the middle of the night... or day," he acknowledges ruefully, "and find it all a bit surreal that we agreed to let him run the show."

I smile. I know the feeling. "We didn't have a lot of choice in the matter," I remind him as I start stripping. "The Rebels made it pretty damn clear who they were going to deal with. Not to mention they wouldn't have worked with *you* at all without him. You know how they feel about anyone who's already been tainted by the experiments."

"Ever get the feeling we're dealing with the only-slightly-lesser of two evils here."

I heave another sigh as I fold my glasses onto the small box next to my bed and crawl under my blanket. "Constantly. And that's one of the main reasons I'm finally perfectly fine with letting Krycek be the big man here. He's had experience working with the devil, plus he's got the slippery type of personality and the triple-think kind of mind that we need to work directly with the Rebels. We *know* he's not the trusting sort." Sure, Walt. That's why you're fine with Krycek these days. I barely manage not to snort as I do my own bit of ceiling-gazing. Well, I did say *one* of the reasons. Oh, shoot me now. "Can we sleep now, Mulder? I'm going to fall asleep mid-sentence any minute now, and you have to go on duty at 17:30."

Mulder makes a noise that I interpret as his usual impatience with the military time habit the rebellion has fallen into. But living underground is a great way to lose all touch with a diurnal schedule. It's too damn easy to mistake 2pm for 2am these days. Or maybe he's just expressing his annoyance that he's on grocery-duty. I smile as he falls silent, and resettle myself on my flat pillow, trying to bunch it up a little.

Even wound up like I am from all the various and sundry decisions and revisions and what-ifs Krycek and I have been sifting through, I feel myself start to drift almost immediately. The dark of the room feels omnipresent, almost tangible, as I try to keep my loosening mind from dwelling on any of the multiple layers of subterfuge my life is operating on at the moment. I breathe deep and concentrate on relaxing muscles that want to twitch. I'm almost asleep when his voice jars me again.

"So what were you and the 'big man' discussing to all hours of the... afternoon."

And I'm suddenly perfectly awake. So, he knows I was behind closed doors with Alex. For hours. Dammit. We red-herring'd him and everything. Made it look like we were at opposite ends of the facility. Him and his goddamn X-File intuition. My mind races. I pretend sleep confusion. "Hmmm... hunh?"

"What were you two meeting about."

Your sister. "The usual." Blank your mind, Walter, just in case.

"What's the usual?"

Your sister. "You know, duty roster, re-evals on the danger ratings in the sectors. We've had increased sighting activity in sector three, you know." I fake a yawn. Concentrate, Walt. Blank your mind. White walls. Picture white walls.

"We discussed that at the full meet yesterday."

He's suspicious. I can hear it in his too-mild tone. Wonderful. A suspicious Mulder, and me without my AD desk to hide behind. I roll over onto my side and lever myself up on an elbow, mirroring his posture. "I think he likes talking to me because I'm ex-military. He just went back over a lot of the same stuff we talked about in the full meet." It makes me more uncomfortable than I expected to lie to this man again, even this for-your-own-good kind of lie. Maybe because all the lies were supposedly for his own good. Maybe because I thought I'd finally stopped.

But here I am again, giving him one answer, knowing something else. Trying to lead him aside with a little casual deception.

"You expect me to believe he wanted to talk to you, for hours, alone, about basic information he'd already gone over."

No. I don't expect you to believe it. But I can't tell you that he finally found your sister and he's breaking all his own rules and setting up a search and rescue. Because it might still be a search and destroy. We just won't know until we get there. I suck in a slow breath and try to decide what I can say that will throw him off the scent of a secret.

It occurs to me to say 'well Mulder, we're having a torrid, secret affair and I just didn't think you'd understand. I spent the last couple hours fucking him over his desk in that Holy Resistance Leader office of his.' I almost burst out laughing and decide I'm *really* overtired.

Although, it gives me an idea. Well, actually it gives me a number of ideas, but only one of them is potentially helpful in dealing with a suspicious Mulder. The rest of the ideas are entirely too problematic in their own right. "Alright, Mulder, alright," I do the patented exasperated-AD voice that he should recognize from any number of 'I shouldn't be telling you this but-' conversations in my old office. "If you must know, we were talking about you." Predictably, he looks about ready to explode across the room and shake more detail out of me.

"ME?! What was he saying about ME?"

"How impossible you are to work with," I manage to keep the glee out of my voice. Barely. "I think he expected me to have some sort of wisdom to impart, suggestions from experience, given how long you worked for me." He throws himself down on his back with a huff. Perfect. Too pissed off to be suspicious. Although now I'll feel bad if he's mad enough he doesn't get any sleep. Especially since if he doesn't get any sleep, he'll keep me awake-

"What did you tell him?"

-with more inane questions. "I told him you don't take well to any authority at any time, anywhere, under any circumstances. And that given the history the two of you share, and who he is, he can't expect you to just roll over and do what he says, even when he is making sense and is the best authority on the subject." An easy lie since it's the truth. Not that he ever talks to me about Mulder. Actually, I'm pretty sure that's what he talks to Dana about on a regular basis. I assume she may really have some pointers on 'how to deal with Mulder'. Alex assiduously avoids talking Mulder with me at all.

The man in question snorts something that sounds like 'what does he expect' and something else unintelligible about 'Krycek' and 'best authority'.

"And I told him you don't always argue just for the sake of arguing and sometimes you can even be worth listening to." I wait for the squawk of outrage, then roll over and settle myself down again with my back to him, grinning.

The reality of the situation washes over me almost before my eyes are closed though, causing my lids to pop open again. I stare at the wall long after I expected to doze off. Despite the fun of needling him occasionally, I do hate lying to Mulder. And this is such a big one. Samantha. *The* biggest one. And if it goes bad - if we go down or if we can't get her, or if we can get her but... - if it goes bad, he'll never know.

Not to mention it's just *one* of the things I know about, but that he and I are not talking about. But hey... it's not my business to be telling him how Alex feels about him if he's too blind to see it, and it's none of *his* business how I feel about Alex.

How I feel about Alex? I stare at the wall and want to bang my head against it. That is *not* the piece of suppressed knowledge I want to drop off to sleep thinking about. I force my mind back to Samantha, despite my fear of what Mulder might pick up.

I wonder if this is how Alex feels all the time... sitting on explosive information that could go either way, and that is really no safer out in the open than it is under wraps. Knowing more than he wants to know. Having conversations with people and having a constant internal dialogue about all the things you can't say. Shouldn't say. Don't want to say.

If it is, he can keep the double agent business. It doesn't suit me. I'm no good at this saying what you don't mean. Keeping your face neutral while you're weeding out the thoughts in your head.

I force my eyes closed and start my deep breathing again. Insomnia isn't my thing, and I can usually get myself to sleep if I concentrate. Unfortunately, I don't have quite the control on my unraveling mind this time, and I slide into a disjointed montage of images as I let myself sink. Alex and the Rebels muttering behind doors, never enough to hear actual words... just the voices. The expression on his face whenever he comes from a meeting alone with them. The way he looks when he fights with Mulder and the way he looks at Mulder when he thinks no one is watching.

I jerk awake, clear my mind, start my relaxation process over again.

Breathe... breathe... white walls... think about white walls...

Drifting...

How I feel about Alex? The little voice saying 'don't even think it' runs headlong into the little voice screaming 'it's already too late'. My internal angels and demons start up their never-ending war again, and maybe it's a good sign that I can't tell which side is which anymore. Doesn't necessarily make it easier to figure out which way I'm going to go, what I'm going to do, if I'm going to do anything, but...

I want all the little voices to quiet down. I want to shut down now. I can't turn off my lazy, circling brain, dragging out all the pieces forming the almost-whole one more time. That face, in the hospital. Finger on the button. In my office. In a tie. In my office. In leather. In my car. In a hospital stairwell. Dragging me out of burning lab. On my balcony. Pulling me down collapsing stairs. In handcuffs. Over a map of the world covered with tiny, ominous black dots. In a dark room covered with tiny, glowing drops of paint.

Alex. How I feel about Alex. How I feel... Feel.

Alex.

I've been pretty blunt, in my own odd way. But the boy can be alarmingly obtuse. That's not fair. Not obtuse. Cautious. Careful. So damned careful, all the time. Sad, really. Sad. And blunt can still be oblique. And oblique just isn't going to cut it. Not with him.

No undercover double-talk with him. Won't do at all. He'll think I'm mocking. If I really want this, I'll have to make the first move. A real move.

Do I want this?

Sleep steals my answer.

I wake to a hand on my shoulder, shaking me. I roll onto my back, blinking, force my eyes open and am immediately blinded by a green gaze so close to my face I'm almost cross-eyed looking at him.

"Alex?"

"Sorry. I'd let you sleep late but I need you in the situation room. We've got some new intelligence."

His husky voice washes over me, and a delicious sensation chases through my entire body. Almost a shiver. I suddenly realize I feel... good. Where would you rather be... "What time is it?"

"Just after 19:00. I know you didn't get much sleep but-"

I wave away his concern, noticing absently that he's still bent over me, still so close. Hand still resting on my bare shoulder. The light is on, the room awash in fluorescent. He looks good in stark light. Not many people do. "I'm awake," I murmur brainlessly.

His lips quirk up in a smile and his eyes crinkle. That almost-shiver runs across my nerve-endings again. "Situation room?" is all he says.

"Give me fifteen."

His hand deserts my shoulder and then he's straightening up, back, no longer swallowing my entire field of vision. I'm still looking at just him. I can't help it.

"See you in fifteen." And he's gone. I hear the door click behind him.

I sit up, much more awake than five hours of sleep should make me. I feel out the calm, settled sensation spreading warmth through me. Definitely got some good REM sleep. Not even any dream fragments brushing the back of my mind. I swing my legs to the floor, shrug out from under the cover and stand up, stretching. Not even the sight of Mulder's still-scattered clothing irritates me, which is surprising enough to give me pause and make me actually stop and think about what I'm feeling.

I stare at the closed door, a slow smile stretching my lips.

~end~

Ratadder's lyrics, courtesy of Sarah:
    
    
    Double Agent
    Performed by Rush, album titled Counterparts
    Music by Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson
    Lyrics by Neil Peart
    words copied without permission; no profit to be made!
    
    Where would you rather be?
    Anywhere but here
    When will the time be right?
    Anytime but now
    
    (spoken)
    On the edge of sleep
    I was drifting for half the night
    Anxious and restless,
    pressed down by the darkness
    Bound up and wound up so tight
    So many decisions, a million revisions
    Caught between darkness and light...
    
    (sung)
    Wilderness of mirrors
    World of polished steel
    Gears and iron chains
    Turn the grinding wheel
    I run between the shadows
    Some are phantoms, some are real
    
    Where would you rather be?
    Anywhere but here
    When will the time be right?
    Anytime but now
    Where would you rather be?
    The doubt and the fear
    I know would all disappear
    Anywhere but here
    
    (spoken)
    On the edge of sleep
    I heard voices behind the door
    The known and the nameless,
    familiar and faceless
    My angels and my demons at war
    Which one will lose--depends on what I choose
    Or maybe which voice I ignore...
    
    (sung)
    Wilderness of mirrors
    Streets of cold desire
    My precious sense of honor
    Just a shield of rusty wire
    I hold against the chaos-
    And the cross of holy fire
    
    Where would you rather be?
    Anywhere but here
    When will the time be right?
    Anytime but now
    Where would you rather be?
    The doubt and the fear
    I know would all disappear
    Anywhere but here
    
    Wilderness of mirrors
    So easy to deceive
    My precious sense of rightness
    Is sometimes so naive
    So that which I imagine
    Is that which I believe
    
    (spoken)
    On the edge of sleep, I awoke to a sun so bright
    Rested and fearless, cheered by your nearness
    I knew which direction was right
    The case had been tried by the jury inside
    The choice between darkness and light...
    

 

* * *

 

Disclaimer: I don't hail CC anymore. Chilled nods to him, 1013, and Fox for their ownership, because I respect ownership, if nothing else. Still no money made.  
Feedback: Feed the giant snakes.  
Pairing: Ongoing confusion... this one is a clear K/Sk though.  
Beta by Paula  
The "Resist and Serve" stories were written for Pollyanna's XF Lyric Wheel. The series currently contains, in chronological order by plot:  
    Burn Me If You Want  
    Don't Call Me Lois  
    Under the Covers  
    Optimism  
    Oxygen  
    And Never Brought to Mind  
    Still Burning  
All stories can be found at 'the compound': http://www.strangeplaces.net/ratadder and at ned&leny's delightful RatB site: http://www.squidge.org/~terma/ratadder/ratadder.htm  
Timeline note: OPTIMISM takes place approximately a week after UNDER THE COVERS. I'm afraid these stories have passed the "stand alone" point. This one may not make much sense without the preceding ones.  
Dedication: This one is for Paula, for so much more than just the incredibly perfect lyrics. In many ways this story should be billed as a collaboration, since it is what it is because she is who she is.

* * *

OPTIMISM  
By Ratadder

22:10

I head in to get something to eat the minute I haul my ass out of bed. Lame attempt to distract myself from waking up in the middle of yet another damn dream, but better than nothing. Besides, I'm starved. I didn't get a chance to eat after I got off shift this morning, before Alex got to me.

'Got to me' being the operative phrase.

Bad enough he's convinced me to go along with his Samantha scheme, *and* not tell anyone. Risking everything, especially himself. Even worse that his obsessive approach to the problem steadily erodes all those comfortable preconceptions and defenses I built up over our history. Not to mention making me warm up to him much too... warmly. As if all that's not enough -I could *really* do without feeling like the soles of my feet are melting when he turns those damn eyes on me.

Looking me right in the eye, all serious and intense and, worst of all, hopeful. "You don't mind, do you, Skinner? I had another thought and I'd really like to bounce it off *you*..." With just enough stress on the 'you' to remind me I'm the only one he's talking to about this. About a lot of things these days.

Hell no, Alex. I don't mind. Let's meet for hours - again - and go through all the details - again - and use up all my mealtime and half of my sleeping time too. Again.

But somehow, I'm just not saying no.

Got to me indeed.

Right, and I was trying to put a certain dream *out* of my head? I suppose it stands to reason the dreams are so vivid, so hard to ignore. After spending so much time with him, it'd be weirder if I *didn't* dream about him. Right?

Note to self... distraction does not work when you ask yourself rhetorical questions about the subject you're attempting to distance yourself from.

Try again. I sigh and attempt to refocus on food. It shouldn't be this hard - I'm hungry enough to eat that whatever-it-is Mulder left molding beside his bed. I meant to grab something after my session with Alex but by then my head was too full and I just wanted to shut down and sleep. Happens a lot these days. It's funny... 'confidante' always sounds like such a coveted position. I think it's overrated. Being in the know with the man in charge sure as hell hasn't made my life any easier.

On the other hand, I'm getting more and more convinced that having me in the know has made his life easier, so maybe it all balances out. As I push open the door to the kitchens, I find I like the thought. I wonder if it's true. I could hope so, if I let myself.

I realize my mind just circled back to him yet again, and I give it up as a lost cause.

There are more people than usual floating around the room we've dubbed the cafeteria. We're between major strikes. Only emergencies that come up on reconnaissance are being dealt with at the moment while we gear up for the next big push. Everyone is getting the lecture on not taking unnecessary risks. Ostensibly we're waiting on some confirmation of intelligence from the Rebels concerning vaccine distribution. But I know Alex is also delaying in order to get the Samantha question cleaned up before he goes on any new major missions.

That realization finally brought home to me how much he actually expects to die each time we go out. He works with us all so much on survival, and talks like getting everyone out each time is beyond question. We actually have a fairly low casualty rate given the missions we're pulling off. Perhaps because we've all been drilled on self-preservation by the self-acknowledged expert. Or maybe because it comes so naturally to most of his old acquaintances, given their prior line of work.

Then again, maybe we've all just reached that understanding, at the gut level, of what it would mean to lose. Losing isn't an option. And we're all there is. And we aren't very many, when you get right down to it. So we do what we need to do to make sure we get the job done, and are still around to do it again. And again.

Working in the resistance offers a whole new perspective on Alex Krycek's life from before. And I thought *I* was a master at doing distasteful things because I thought they had to be done, back in a consortium-riddled FBI. Hell, I barely brushed the surface.

Of course I had more limits. I've always had more limits than he does. There were some things I think they knew I just wouldn't do. I wonder sometimes if he's ever hit that wall... the thing he won't do, no matter what. I haven't decided if I really want the answer.

I nod to a few people as I wend between the scattered tables and the lounging rebels. Coffee cups lift in salute but greetings are low key. People are a little restless but you'd never know. Most of the teams are used to staying sharp between bouts of inactivity. Not letting boredom get the better of them. Old professional patterns again. For all my early reticence at Alex's recruits, I find them an... interesting bunch to work with.

I'm restless too, and likely not hiding it as well as they are. Of course, I know what the next mission really is.

And it isn't the only thing keeping me on edge. Making me dream. Distracting me...

Once I decided to acknowledge that my feelings for our vaunted leader had definitely crossed over from increasing ambivalence and confusion to admiration, I got hit in the face with the inevitable "what next?" To tell him or not to tell him? I want to let him know. I've tried subtle cues... I'm a hell of a lot nicer in general to him these days. I don't give him half the shit I used to. I make a sincere effort to ask him where he's coming from when he says something that strikes me as morally offensive and cold, rather than just jumping down his throat. I bring him food when he forgets to eat, which is a little too often for my comfort level. I got him extra cinnamon gum the last time I was on grocery duty, knowing he'd run out and kept getting too busy or forgetting to pick it up himself. He never *asks* anyone to buy it for him, never puts it on the lists.

Little things. Telling him he needs to go to sleep instead of rereading plans one more time. Taking an extra guard shift myself so he can get four hours of uninterrupted sleep.

And there's that *little* issue of not being able to say no to him lately. I suppose that could be considered a subtle clue. Although I think he doesn't realize just how hard it's getting for me. He may think I'm being unusually agreeable of late, but I don't think he's made the connection that every time he widens his eyes at me, I... respond. Why would he? Given our past, he's not about to assume that I *enjoy* talking with him, listening to him.

Besides, I want more. More than just comfortable conversation, him thinking of me as a friend. I need to face what the dreams are telling me, what's been lurking in my mind whenever I interact with him lately - I want to reach out. I want to know if my growing interest is returned. Maybe it's foxhole attraction, that's certainly what I was trying to tell myself at first, but I don't think so. I find myself distracted at the worst times, thinking about what it would be like to *kiss* him. Thinking about what it would be like to yank him into my arms and just hold him for a few minutes, make him shut up and stop talking and stop *thinking* and... just give him a place to feel safe once in a while.

And these dreams. Christ. Kissing and holding is the least of what my subconscious wants to do.

It's confusing to *me*, and I'm in my head. I'm sure it would be somewhat surprising to him.

So first things first. Getting more... blunt. I'm an action kind of guy. How hard can this be? I've been asking myself that every waking hour of every day for over a week. And obviously way too many of the sleeping hours too. It's enough to embarrass a guy. I know what I want and I know how to find out if he wants it too. I can handle it if he doesn't. I've been turned down before. I'm hardly an inexperienced man. But... him.

How does he do this to me... make me feel like this.

I suppose it doesn't help that every time I'm with him for any extended length of time, we're talking about Mulder. Indirectly. He tends to avoid discussing Mulder with me. But Fox Fucking Mulder is omnipresent under every word, every damn studied conversation about how to waltz into the middle of Colonization Central and come back out not only alive, but with the crown jewel under our arm. Whether Alex admits it or not, we've talked of nothing but Mulder ever since that night four weeks back when he got word about Samantha.

Granted, watching him plan and replan and fuss and obsess and devote himself to Samantha's rescue has been an experience I wouldn't have missed for the world. Seeing those devil brows draw in. That little frown line crinkling his nose. Chewing on a knuckle. Concentrating to the point of distraction. Knowing that in his own way, no matter what he says, he's still trying to pay a debt, make amends for his approach to life, his actions. And that warm sensation in my gut spreads all through me.

Then I'll suddenly remember the underlying implication - his dedication to Mulder. His doomed little quest for Mulderaffection, whether he admits it or not, even to himself.

And I feel a little less tender.

Or I catch him watching Mulder with that... look. And I feel a lot less tender.

For all my action-orientation, I'm having a hard time making myself *move* on this one. Watching him moon over Mulder, even just watching any of the team exchange significant looks about how he moons over Mulder, depresses the hell out of me and makes me chalk up any interesting dreams or notions I'm having to a lost cause. And it takes me half a day to get myself back to a place where I remember he knows Mulder is a lost cause too, so maybe my notions aren't as unlikely as I might think. We could start again, talk through everything, actually let the past *go* and think about what might happen... next. In a way he knows he can't, not with Mulder.

And then I walk in on him fighting with Mulder about some damn fool thing and I watch the sparks fly and I just... run in circles. Over and over.

And even if I do get myself to the point of acting, how the hell do I get it through his head. Occasionally, late at night or the middle of the day or whenever I'm trying to catch some sleep, I amuse myself thinking about his possible reactions. Somehow I get a strong sense I'm going to have to literally whack him over the head. For a man who deals in subtleties, he's really thick sometimes.

Honestly, Walter, about time you stopped thinking. Seems like all I do these days.

I realize I've long since reached the serving station and I've been standing here staring at the food. I glance around to see if anyone is giving me odd looks, but most of them are focused on their own tables. Of course, even if they were giving me odd looks, I'd probably never catch them at it. Damn professionals.

I spoon up my usual bowl of oatmeal. They've taken to offering it 'round the clock, which I appreciate, since I'm never completely sure when "breakfast" will be these days. I study it objectively and sigh. It'll do, despite the lack of anything interesting to put in it. One of my favorite past-times, dressing up oatmeal. Supplies are a little short at the moment, particularly "luxury" items. Alex has even been conservative on sending anybody out on grocery runs in the last week, and we've got more drains on our resources since we actually got a few people out on two of the last raids. I meant to ask him about supplies yesterday, but I got sidetracked with our latest analysis of risk and probability ratios for Operation Twinkle Version 57. I always get a grin out of him actually using that name... I tossed it out as a joke but it's stuck. I'm seeing his odd sense of humor more and more, ever since a night in outer space talking about superheroes.

A hand suddenly appears over my shoulder and something drops into my bowl. Pecans. A smile is stretching my lips before I even realize that I definitely know there is only one person who could possibly be dropping pecans into my oatmeal unasked for. "Got brown sugar?" I ask, as if anonymous pecans appear over my shoulder every day.

"For a price," the husky voice whispers over my shoulder, sending a shiver straight down my spine. I wonder if he means that as flirtatious as it sounds. I wonder if he knows what his voice does to me and uses it on purpose. I'd assume a man of his professional history is well versed in using any and all weapons in his arsenal, but he never seems to use it consciously. At least not with me. "Special stash," he continues in a low rasp. "Keep it quiet."

I drop my voice and play along. "My lips are sealed. Where?"

"Meet me in outer space. Make sure nobody follows you."

The hand is gone, and I already know that by the time I turn around, he'll be nowhere in sight. I turn anyway, can't resist, and catch a flash of black exiting the doors. Slow today, or perhaps just in a playful mood. The more time I spend with him, the more flashes I see of the latter. I realize I'm grinning again when Norman walks by me and gives me a wide berth. I school my face and head for the door, mixing my pecans into my oatmeal.

I take a circuitous route that keeps me from the more traveled hallways and has me worrying for the temperature of my cereal when I finally get to eat it. But eventually I'm at his special room, without running into anyone troublesome. I knock once on the door and then key in the code I memorized a few weeks back, when he casually turned to me and told me I should have it. Every time I activate the touchpad, the memory gives me a little jolt. I slip inside, closing the door behind me.

He looks up as I walk across the bare room, and smiles.

Fuck.

Why do I get the privilege of seeing what no one else does? When did he make a decision that he needed to be a real person occasionally, and I was going to be the recipient?

I don't care when or why or how. I just bask in the sun of that incredible *real* smile, and thank the stars on the ceiling that something I said to him at some point got through the message that he could relax the defenses a little with me. I'm not even positive he consciously decided to do it, and in a way, that's an even bigger compliment.

He's sitting cross-legged on the floor, an array of papers spread before him. I notice a small pile of mussed blankets against one wall. Looks like he's been sleeping in here again. A small lamp is on; his arm is off. He reaches behind his back and tosses something to me. No one can fault the boy's aim... I catch it easily and laugh as I read the small can. Brown sugar.

"Shit. You were serious." I settle on the floor across from him and open the can, shaking a healthy sprinkle onto my oatmeal and mixing again.

"Would I lie to you?"

The voice is his best butter-wouldn't-melt, and I know what the eyes will look like without even seeing them. I look up anyway, just to enjoy the show. Innocence always was delicious on that face, all the more so now because I can appreciate the irony. "And why are you stockpiling brown sugar, may I ask?"

"Because you like it," he gives a lopsided shrug, already immersed in his papers again. "I picked it up my last time out. Don't hand that around, I could only get the one. So, I've got confirmation that I was right. Minor complication, since we've been expecting it. You know I've been suspicious but now I-"

He's talking but it's a background blur. A pleasant, raspy blur that I could listen to at length, but still a blur. I'm stuck on his first words. Because you like it. He not only noticed I like brown sugar in my oatmeal, he got it for me? Saved it for me?

Don't read too much into it, Walter. He probably knows what kind of socks Mulder prefers, how he takes his coffee, and the exact shade of ripeness he likes his bananas. Don't get too excited. Definitely don't tackle him across the goddamn papers and rip that black turtleneck off him. Even if it is the one with the hole just under the neck line, right over his collarbone, giving that teasing glimpse of skin so you just want to hook your fingers into it and yank, knowing the old cotton would just split right down the chest, peel away-

No. Surefire way to scare him off. If he didn't react with a super-spy triple-agent self-defense move that would undoubtedly incapacitate me in some horribly painful way, he'd shoot me outright. And probably be pissed as all hell if I wrinkle his precious plans. No, not the right way to whack him over the head at all.

Although it would likely avoid the trap of him thinking I'm mocking him.

"-listening to me? HELLO?"

"Hmm?" Shit. I can't believe the conversations I'm having with myself these days. I have *got* to settle this one way or the other, and soon. Before I can't stand to live with myself. I realize I have no idea what he said after 'because you like it.' Definitely not going to get away with trying to pick up the thread of the conversation now. Oh well. "Sorry. I drifted." I don't sound particularly apologetic, even to my own ears.

He gives me a bemused look. "No shit. Where were you?"

Ripping your shirt off and devouring you on top of Operation Twinkle, Variation 58. No one has the right to look that good in a fucking turtleneck. I shake my head and get refocused. "You don't even want to know," I mutter.

He tilts his head to one side and stares at me for a long moment, eyes narrowed, trying to read me. He's looking at me like that a lot these days. It's one of the more honest expressions I see on that face. I stare back lazily without bothering to edit my expression. Reminding myself I'm trying to be obvious here. Hoping a little of the heat I'm feeling is showing through my eyes. I used to be good at the 'passionate gaze' thing, but I'm not exactly in practice.

Clueless boy finally shakes his head and gives me another 'I don't know about you' eyebrow raise. I'm getting used to those, too. They make me smile. "I'll take your word for that," he finally settles on. "Ready to pay attention now?" He taps his papers.

"Just about," I stir my oatmeal and take a slow bite. Swallowing, I sigh happily and gesture to the bowl. "First, thanks. What's up with supply runs lately? I've been meaning to ask. Things have been fairly quiet on the outside. Why so cagey this past week?"

"*If* you're ready to pay attention, that's what I was just *talking* about," he puts on his long-suffering lecture voice, and I recognize the words I've used so many times in my previous life. Damn, his memory should be a registered weapon. I narrow my eyes and give him the 'I *consented* to let you be in charge, boy' look so common from the early days of our resistance work together. He ducks his head but not before I see the smirk. When he looks up he's serious again. "It *is* a trap. I got a confirmation about six days ago that I didn't come by the Samantha information by accident."

I bristle, instantly all business. "Your contact set you up?"

"No, I think Reinhold's on the up-and-up. As much as he can be." He rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and I wonder how bad the current headache is. I start eating mechanically as he talks. "I think the information is out there in all the 'right' places, because they want it to get back to Mulder. I'm guessing Reinhold came by it, if you'll excuse the expression, honestly enough. I just think somebody was making sure it got out far enough that it couldn't help but reach me. But it wasn't me they were really trying to get it to, surprise surprise. All I can figure is they actually thought I'd tell him." He shakes his head, as if in awe at somebody's stupidity.

I'm not about to be the one to break it to him that some of his old Syndicate cronies are bound to know his weakness is Mulder. Most likely the grand dragon himself. Granted, they may have predicted he'd jump the wrong way, but that's only because they don't truly understand how he thinks. I might have assumed the same in their place - that he'd pass the information right on to Mulder. But in Alex's peculiar little mind, protecting Mulder still overrides getting in good with him through information. Now that I've been studying him so closely for the last couple months, I could have told them that. Not that I would, but I could have. I can't help feeling smug that I've got that much of a leg up on everybody else where he's concerned.

"Apparently, when nothing was immediately forthcoming, when he didn't jump for the bait, when nobody tried for her, they decided to go more obvious." He gives me a tired look.

"You mean... other people-?"

"Yep. I've heard about these 'interesting rumors' from three separate people in the last six days."

I stop eating, swallowing hard. We've always been planning as if it could be a trap anyway, so what's disturbing is the fact that this is the first time *I've* heard about the confirmation. "What did you do?" And why didn't you tell me.

"Two of them weren't a problem. They're in the group that would only bring information like that directly to me, and I brushed them off with a line that it had to be a trap and I wasn't going to be bothered with such obvious bait." His mouth twists unpleasantly. "Langley, on the other hand, I had to threaten."

"Shit! Alex!"

"It's okay, he expects it from me." He gives me a look I would have called sheepish on anyone else. "I told him in explicit detail what I'd do to him if he dared breathe a word of it to Mulder. Then I gave him the same rundown, that it was obviously a baited trap. I just lied a little more with him and told him I knew for a fact Samantha was dead, so it was even a poorly baited trap. That seemed to do the trick."

I groan, and resume eating, still more pissed that he didn't tell me than I am that he threatened Langley. Langley could do with a little threatening from time to time. "You really think he won't say anything to Mulder? That he didn't go to Mulder *first*?"

The lopsided shrug again, accompanied by a heavy sigh. "I was lucky... I was in the computer room when he was decoding and realized what he had. I was able to short circuit any spill of information but... well, I think we'll know the second he does tell him, if he does. UXB Mulder will shake the ceiling when he finally goes off. Just to be safe, I've got an extra team on Mulder though, with direct orders to lock him down if he even *looks* like he's walking off course."

It doesn't escape my notice that he said *extra* team on Mulder. I've suspected he's had a back-up tailing Mulder for a while now. I let it go because, frankly, I don't think it's a bad idea. Especially with this new twist. I scrape the bottom of my bowl and push aside the little voice still nattering on about how I'm only just hearing about this, when he's had it on his plate for six days. I guess I've gotten used to being in the know, even if it is a pain in the ass. But... let it go, Walter. Concentrate on the important stuff. "So you've been pulling everyone in and stalling everything so it won't spread any further and get back to him."

He rubs his eyes again, then pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah. Where I can. Which brings us back to brown sugar." His expression takes on a disgusted tinge. "Even supplies are a problem right now. The second person who heard the 'rumor' was on a grocery run. Which is why I was saying this complicates things. We can't do shit now until we pull this off, or we risk Mulder finding out and bungling the whole thing, likely getting himself taken in the process. Especially now we know it definitely is a setup *and* that they're targeting him specifically." His face darkens. "Obviously, with a Samantha-setup."

Unless they're targeting you, I almost say, but bite my tongue, letting him continue unimpeded.

"I think it's safe to say that no matter whether we have any idea *why* they want him so bad, we really don't want to see them get their hands on him," he adds sarcastically.

I sigh and shift into my usual problem-solving mode. "Okay, so it's no surprise they still want him. You've suspected it right along. We've always been planning for the possibility the Samantha information could be a trap. So, we've got confirmation. Better now than later. So let's do the detail check and go with the trap contingencies." I'll just have to factor the possibility that he's the target into *my* planning.

An hour later I have a headache to match the one showing in his pained expression. Given his original intelligence, we're confident they're baiting this trap with the real thing... that it really is Samantha, and she really is alive. The new leaks haven't dissuaded him, just made him more positive on that front. Alex is convinced They know that nothing less than the real thing would lure Mulder out at this point in the game, especially since he's 'let go' and given her up for dead. I'm inclined to agree; I think it's her. They're pulling out the big guns, which could be a good sign or a bad one. Either we've got them worried, or they're just starting up some new offensive. No way of knowing for sure. To make matters worse, we're still unclear on her specific condition, and no amount of beating the proverbial bushes on his part has brought any further elucidation. So we're not only still planning to pull off the impossible, we now know for a fact they're lying in wait for us while we attempt it. But he won't hear of not trying...

Frustration, thy name is Alex Krycek. In more ways than one.

All we know for sure is we need to move sooner rather than later. All told, knowing it's a trap doesn't change much of our plans, depressing as that may be, since we've already been thinking that way. We might as well move now, we're as ready as we're likely to get. We've just been fine-tuning, hoping like hell for a break from the Rebels. Which doesn't seem to be coming.

I throw myself down onto my back on the floor, staring at his sky. In the light of the lamp, his stars are almost invisible, and it just looks like a spotty black ceiling. I find myself wondering what his sky would look like in candlelight. I bet it would look nice in here. I know there are some candles down in Supply 2. Wonder if there are any candleholders floating around?

"There's always the tried-and-true laundry truck."

Why in hell would a laundry truck have candleholders? Definitely not an option. I catch myself before I can voice this conclusion, and find myself perplexed as to why I'm even trying to picture his room in candlelight. I roll my head sideways on the floor to blink at him.

He's on his back too, perpendicular to me, and as he speaks he arches his head all the way back so he's looking at me upside down. It makes his face look funny.

"You know, in all the old movies. Someone is always sneaking in or out of a place in the laundry truck." His upside down smile looks even funnier. "It always works."

Every time he jokes with me, no matter how lame, I chalk up another one on my mental score sheet that tallies up how he talks to me these days versus how he interacts with everyone else. It's a quiet thrill. But I give the expected response. "Alex. Have you been getting enough sleep?"

He gives that weird, choked chortle of his. Always makes me wonder if someone used to yell at him for laughing when he was a boy, the way he seems to unconsciously try to cut it off. Maybe he just trained it out of himself. Figured it was bad for the assassin image. That would be very Alex.

"Okay," he sighs, pushing himself back to a sitting position and swiveling to face me. "Enough for today. I have to check the latest downloads, make sure I don't have to threaten any more hackers. And you need to double-check the roster and make sure that no one has 'reassigned' himself." The put-upon look on his face reminds me of the expression I used to wear as an AD.

"Oh sure. You get all the fun and I get all the headaches. When do *I* get to threaten hackers?" I grouse as I lever myself up and get to my feet.

"You get the next one, promise," he deadpans, rolling to his knees in an awkward movement made graceful only through uncounted repetition. Picking up our redlined diagrams of the complex Samantha is reportedly being held in, he lays them in an unlabeled folder one by one.

"Promises, promises," I snort, heading for the door, waiting for it. Sure enough, when I'm halfway there, his voice catches me.

"Walt."

I only half-turn, used to his habits by now. He imparts the oddest bits of information on my way out the door. Usually the best stuff. "Yeah?" Carefully nonchalant.

"I didn't want to distract you."

Okay, non sequitur anyone? I turn all the way around. "Say again?"

"If you were wondering. Why I didn't mention the Samantha leaks I've been hearing until now." He finally looks up from his careful stacking, made slow by virtue of being a one-handed process, face classic Krycek blank. "I was waiting to see if the leaking was going to be a real problem. I didn't want to distract you with worrying about what Mulder might hear." This time the shrug looks vaguely uncomfortable. "I needed at least one of us approaching the problem with a totally clear head. I needed your best strategy."

I stand for a moment, just looking at the lone figure kneeling on the floor in a small circle of light. Surrounded by a hopeless plan. So far removed, so carefully locked away. Juggling all the pieces all the time, trying so hard to put the whole puzzle together single-handedly. So damn lonely. He's got to be tired of the place he's in.

I nod slowly. "I understand." I find my feet moving back toward him without a conscious decision. I stop just in front of him as he looks up expectantly, obviously wondering why I came back. I usually just take in whatever gem he tosses me and walk out the door with it. But today... I can feel myself crumbling, the pressure of what's been building on the inside pressing for release. He starts to rise from his knees and I hold out my hand before I realize I'm going to do it. He stares at it for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, and I wince internally. But I can't draw it back now without looking plain damn clumsy. Then he puts his hand on mine and uses it to balance as he rises.

I catch my breath. Letting me help him is a far cry beyond just being more comfortable with me. He looks me in the face once he's standing, and his expression is still blank but his eyes... there I go melting into my shoes again.

How do you do it, Alex?

He withdraws even as I watch, pulling back further into himself, his hand starts to pull away, and my fingers tighten reflexively. He looks momentarily startled, but he doesn't tug his hand back as I close mine around it and squeeze, gently. My other hand is lifting to touch his hair, just over his ear... I watch it as if I'm moving on automatic, and in some ways I am. I can't seem to stop myself. My fingers stroke the spiky darkness, my thumb coasts against the warmth of his skin, his cheekbone.

His head turns, just a fraction, *into* my touch, his eyelashes dipping. My throat tightens at his reaction, I feel a swell of emotion and... he's stiffening, his eyes widening. Stepping back and his hand breaks from mine. He blinks at me and I see confusion. Confusion that gets swept under the rug as my hands drop to my sides, as he speaks quickly, brusquely. "I... ah, I have to get to the computer room. I'll be late and what with that being the way the information 'turned up' last time, I'm concerned. I need to stay right on top of them, they're probably the most unpredictable link we've got right now besides Mulder himself." He's talking faster than usual; his hand lifts and rifles his hair in a gesture I've come to realize is habitual, the closest thing he has to a nervous tick. "If you'll take care of the roster stuff for me, that would be great. I-"

I nod and take a step backward, smiling blandly. Giving him his space, physically and emotionally. Something tears, short and sharp, just behind my breastbone, but my voice is calm and nothing but friendly when I speak. "I'm on it. Don't give it a second thought. Go threaten your hackers and make sure they understand how important this is." With a smile and a nod I turn and make my way out of the room.

And try to figure out what just happened.

* * *

09:55

I'm still pondering when I get off rotation.

I finished my stint on external perimeter without much trouble; I can always keep myself on track when I'm outside. Apparently old lessons never die, and Vietnam was a very thorough teacher. But my mind wandered all over hell and back during my shift at the east wing doors.

And it didn't wander anywhere near another mental review of Operation Twinkle, which is where it should have been concentrating.

He responded. I made an overture and he responded. Before he took the time to *think*, he responded. That has to be a good sign. Think optimistic. I sure as hell can't just drop it and act like it didn't happen. I can't guess what's going through his head and walk away and never mention it again because I think he was trying to 'let me down easy'. I don't work that way.

Of course it took me a good four hours to get to that determination but... I got there. Here.

On the upside, despite all the distraction, by the time I get off I've made my firm decision. We need to talk, and we need to talk sooner rather than later. As in, today. Now. Or as soon as possible anyway. And I'll make another overture, one that's clear and unmistakable. And try to reach that response again.

With that in mind, I reshuffled his plans. He'll probably be pissed as hell that I took it upon myself to clear his schedule but... tough. And it was surprisingly easy. No one questioned my right to cancel meetings for him, one of the benefits of the amount of authority he's handed off to me. The ease with which people took my determination of his schedule makes me doubly convinced we need to talk. Makes me wonder if everybody else is already talking.

And here I've been thinking 'poor Alex' what with him being so obvious about Mulder and all. Talk about the blind leading the blind.

But now I've seen everybody I need to see, and I check my watch. Timing looks good. He should be back by 10:30 from his meet. No one is expecting him anywhere for a couple hours. Now if I can just count on him actually getting back when he's scheduled. I don't feel like waiting around forever. Shouldn't be a problem; he's been unusually prompt returning from his excursions these days. Now I know why - he's suddenly got more to keep track of inside the facility. If my calculations are correct following my perusal of the roster, and I know they are, he'll be coming in the North door today. And you think you're not predictable, Alex.

Mulder's on North door duty until 13:00.

I feel my grin twist into an involuntary grimace, but I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Not going to even think about it today. Let it go. I know the score, and I'm not going to let it stop me. Concentrate. You want this. Give it a shot. All you can do is talk to him, get it out in the open, see what the lay of the land is.

All that's left is the note. I stare at the piece of paper I printed my message on. 'Meet me in outer space. 11:15. -W.' Considering I've already cancelled his meetings, it's a little late to have second thoughts now. I stick the note in a folder and stack the folder with a few others, tuck them under my arm.

Time to go see a man about a surveillance camera.

* * *

10:20

"Don't you have somewhere you need to be, Skinner?"

I stack my feet on the table Frohike is trying to work on, and give him an innocent smile. "Not really, no."

Rolling his eyes, he makes a big production out of moving over far enough so he can spread his computer printouts across the table without my feet coming anywhere near them. "Tell me again *why* you're gracing us with your presence?" he mumbles directly to the papers.

"Because you guys are information central. Always makes me feel on top of things to hang out with you techies, watch you keep an eye on everything and everyone." I cast my hands expansively around to indicate the multiple screens displaying continuously changing views of the outside perimeter and the internal hallways.

From her position in front of the central monitor, Eve tosses me an amused smile. I wink at her. Frohike snorts and grumbles something under his breath that I graciously ignore. My mind's on other things today. A face tilting into my touch...

And speak of the devil. A high-pitched chirrup sounds from the distance motion sensors and Eve smoothly sights in on the movement. As casually as possible I drop my feet to the floor, rise and wander to her chair to watch over her shoulder.

Frohike glances at his watch and then at the ever-present palm pilot that hangs on his belt. "Ought to be Krycek," he tosses over his shoulder to Eve, never fully straightening up from his study of his printouts.

"Mmmm hmm." She keeps the cameras focused on the moving target and magnifies the image. Sure enough, that smooth sliding walk is instantly recognizable. Not to mention the dead giveaway - he's out there alone. Everyone else moves in pairs or quartets on the outside. Only he wanders around solo. Makes me crazy but I haven't figured out how to knock some sense into him. "Positive identification... boss man's back," she confirms to Frohike, who grunts a reply. "Looks like... North entrance."

Quell surprise. Trying my best to make it sound like I'm just coming to the conclusion, I sigh, "Well, I suppose I should go give him the latest update, since I know where he is for once." I stretch nonchalantly. "Nice visiting with you, Frohike."

He turns his head just enough to give me a speaking look over his glasses and returns to his work. Eve on the other hand swivels her chair and smiles up at me. "See you later, Walter."

I nod goodbye, pick up my stack of folders and leave the room. My timing needs to look nicely accidental now, considering who's going to be present. I cut through the corridors and by the time I wander up to Mulder and Anthony arguing amicably over the Yankees, I figure he must be fairly close. I'm not disappointed. Within a few minutes of my inserting myself into their conversation, the expected series of beeps sounds, indicating someone is keying open the far door lock from the outside. Mulder rolls his eyes at me and jerks his head at the door. "His highness is home. Security confirmed his ident a little while ago." As Alex appears around the sliding door, Anthony speaks into his headset to Eve, letting her know Alex is in and the door is being reset.

He walks towards us and I feel my adrenaline kick up just a bit. Nerves? Christ. Unbelievable. I force the thought aside and tell myself my pulse did *not* just speed up. As he gets closer I can see he looks tired. His eyes coast greedily over Mulder in that familiar way, then swing to me before Mulder can toss off one of his usual welcomes.

"Hey Skinner... what's up?"

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at the way Mulder's face registers annoyance at being effectively ignored. Honestly... poor Alex. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't with Mulder. Which suits me just fine. I meet that laser beam gaze and let the moment drag, enjoying having his attention focused on me, enjoying even more the way his face relaxed just a bit when he saw me. "I was just killing some time," I finally say casually. "But since I'm running into you anyway..." I make a production out of rifling through the folders under my arm, selecting the one that carries the only document I want him looking at right now. Handing it over, I shrug apologetically. "This could use your attention as soon as you can get to it."

"Okay," he responds, accepting it and flipping it open. His eyes skim rapidly and I watch him pause. The note staring up at him doesn't take long to read. He looks up and though his eyes immediately seek mine again, his expression is unchanged, perfectly blase. Always the professional. "I'll get right on it," he nods, closing the folder firmly. "I just need to check in with Rhodes."

Okay, so he might be a little late. I can deal with that. I nod and turn back the way I came in. "Later Tony. Mulder." Anthony responds, but Mulder is already starting in. I walk away to the sound of his voice.

"So what's up with all the restraint, Krycek? I thought you were just playing your little control games with me again, but looks like you're not letting any of the teams out of the hole at the moment."

"You know we're waiting on the Rebels, Mulder," his weary rejoinder comes, and I have to stop myself from going back and dragging him away with me, knowing he'll stand there and let Mulder pick away until the headache-lines are standing clearly on either side of his eyes. He's a big boy. If he chooses to stay and take it... I settle for heaving an irritated sigh.

"Yeah, but-"

I'm around the corner and out of earshot for the rest of Mulder's rebuttal, and just as glad. Watching them interact is the quickest way to convince myself not to have this conversation. And that's not happening. Not this time.

My resolve firmed, I take the shortest route to my destination. Once back inside, I wonder if I should have the lamp on or off. Sometimes he likes talking in the dark, prefers it, and this could be an easier conversation to have watching his stars. But since I'm the one that asked to talk, it may seem weird if *I'm* sitting here in the dark. If he wants to initiate a conversation while stargazing that's one thing. From me, after what happened earlier, it might look a little... premeditated. I walk over to turn on the lamp.

And trip over it. Fuck! How the hell he gets himself around in here by the light of those stars is beyond me. I manage to keep myself from falling flat by catching myself on the wall, but wince at the crash and tinkle of glass.

Fucking great. Kneeling on the floor carefully, avoiding shards, I stare at the mess and try to figure out what to be pissed at... my stubbed toe, sore elbow, the broken lamp, or the fact that now we really will be talking in the dark, whether I intended it or not. Besides, I'd actually *like* to see his face while I try to talk to him about this.

Sitting back with a huff, trying to figure out where I can grab another lamp and quick, I realize I've sat on his blankets I noticed earlier. Fabulous... can this get anymore seduction-like? I swear I-

My brain catches and snags. Seduction-like... I flash on my thoughts from during our meeting, my mental image of candlelight in the room. My hand rests on the blankets beneath me.

Well, I did say I thought I might have to be... obvious. Whack him over the head, if I recall the thought correctly. Maybe I need to do a little more than talk to get through to him. After all, it was a physical gesture he responded to. And he did respond.

I'm up and practically running before I realize I've made up my mind. Supply 2 is closer than tracking down another lamp anyway. Keeping an eye on my watch, I ignore the odd looks I'm getting as I race around, now hoping that he *will* be late from his check-in with Rhodes. Breathing hard, I manage to beat him back to the star room, and catch my breath as I scramble around lighting candles. None of them match and two are in glasses from the kitchen rather than actual holders, but who cares. I found enough to have one in each corner and one each against the side walls, and the flicker through the glasses is kind of pretty. It's a small room; the six give a healthy glow, with enough shadows left to allow for atmosphere and to not overpower the stars.

Nice.

The little tin of Vaseline from the medical supplies sitting right next to the candle bin stays in my pocket. If candles seem a little premeditated, that could be considered downright insulting. Certainly a long shot. I can hardly believe I grabbed it. But it was just *sitting* there and... well, it never hurts to hope.

I'm lighting the last wick as I hear the sound of booted feet in the hall. As the keypad beeps, I realize I didn't get rid of the broken glass yet. I walk to the door to steer him clear of it, when the door swings inward. He walks straight in without hesitation, momentum carrying him past me, the door closing behind him with a sharp click. I open my mouth to speak just as my hand lifts and settles firmly on his left shoulder.

The next moment I'm on the floor, gasping and coughing, trying to get my breath after a sharp elbow to the gut and a long leg sweeping my feet out from under me. Never touch a Krycek from behind.

"Fuck! Walter!" He kneels beside me and helps me sit up, rubbing my back, a look of concern and dismay crossing his face. "I'm sorry! Are you okay? I didn't... I mean..."

I blink at him in the low light and manage a choked chuckle. "Who the hell did you think it was?! I'm the one who asked to meet you here."

Flustered, he stammers. "I-I, I know, I'm sorry. I just, I didn't... the room, it seemed off and-"

Fuck, he's cute like this. I shake my head, letting the wry laughter take over. "Alex, stop. I know, I know. I should know better than to touch you from behind, without identifying myself. I just sort of figured you'd be less hair-triggered coming into your own room when I *asked* you to meet me here." I shake my head at him in exasperation. "I suppose it's my fault though..." I trail off and wave the hand that isn't rubbing my sore stomach, encompassing the candles.

He freezes, looks up and around. Taking in the room, finally. Looking at each candle in turn. Startlement and then confusion spread over his face, as rare as the fluster and just as adorable. I really have to remember not to mention that to him. I doubt he'd appreciate it.

"Sorry about the dark," I offer. "I knocked over the lamp. I'm sorry. I'll get you another one."

He glances over at the shattered remains and a bemused half-smile curls his lips. "You broke my lamp?"

"I didn't mean to. I tripped over it." I pause, take a slow breath and take a chance. I lift my hand, touching his cheek lightly, stroking my fingers down to his jaw, catching his chin and gently guiding his face about to look at me. Huge dark eyes stare at me in wounded bewilderment and my heart aches. Has it been so long, Alex? So long since anybody gave a damn?

"Alex." Making my voice as low and gentle as I can. "Alex, I know this may look a little... odd. It's not what it looks like." I stop. It isn't? "Okay, that's not right either. It sort of is what it looks like. Earlier... what happened. It was kind of sudden. I think it took you by surprise. Hell, in a way it took me by surprise, though I have been... thinking about it. I mean in a general sense. But I asked to meet you here because I wanted to talk about it. I don't want to just back away and pretend nothing happened." I take another deep breath and push on, not letting him look away. "I want to talk to you about... how things are. Now. Get it out on the table so we can work with it or around it, but so we don't have to ignore it like the invisible elephant in the room.

"I wasn't trying to push you. Before. I just reacted spontaneously. Some things that have been building just sort of spilled out. Working with you these past months... things are... sort of... different. At least they are for me. A lot different. I thought... maybe... maybe for you too. It's okay if they're not, I'm not asking for anything you don't want to give, or have, or... well. I'm just... tired of not talking about it, not trying. What I mean is-" I'm not expressing myself well, and frustration rises in my throat. Words have never been my strong suit. Huffing out an irritated sigh, I tighten my grip a fraction on his chin, and guide his face closer, leaning in and tilting my head sideways. "What I mean is... this," I breathe against his mouth, then close the distance. I brush my lips across his once, then fasten on with the hunger he's been unknowingly sparking in me, pouring all the frustrated 'signals' out into the most blatant message I can give. I've used up all the subtlety I possess.

I hear a muffled gasp of surprise, and take quick advantage of the parting lips, not above using any skills at my disposal to sway the answer in my favor. Letting my tongue sweep his mouth, I get lost in the moist silk feel, the strong edge of teeth, the hot slick twist of his tongue. My other hand finds the back of his head and burrows into the soft spiky hair I've been dying to touch for... for *months*. One touch earlier was not enough. Just enough to make me want more. Stroking again and again, brushing against the grain and he shivers. My hand at his chin caresses down over his throat, feeling out his pulse, running back up to play fingertips over the plump flesh of an earlobe, tease the ridges of an ear. He makes a noise against my mouth, and I love it. My tongue retreats just long enough for my teeth to nip at his lower lip, tugging, trying to get the sound again. A little voice in my head is screaming something, and it sounds like 'you said you weren't pushing, give him a chance to say yes or no!'

Right. Right. I release his lip and pull back, letting both hands stroke once more before coming to rest, cradling his face. Thoroughly flummoxed Alex Krycek. Beautiful sight. I smile slowly. "Yes." I nod. "Yes, that's exactly what I mean."

His mouth opens. Closes. His hand is still on my back, and I suddenly notice it's fisted in my shirt, hanging on for dear life. I think Superman is feeling a little uncertain about leaping this particular building, flying this high. "Skinner," he finally manages, then changes his mind mid-thought. "Walter." I'm pleased with the shift. "I... I don't understand. Earlier I didn't... it was so- I just- it seems- I- you... you and... and me?"

"If you want," I answer, ignoring the fact that he hasn't actually asked anything coherent. I get the idea and I think that's as much as I'm going to get out of him and I very determinedly do not even crack a smile about it.

"Why?" His voice cracks, and I notice his eyes are looking a bit wild.

"Because I'd like to. Because you're different, you've changed. Or, maybe you're the same and I'm different, or something. Because I understand better. Or at least I think I do." I pause, because I'm not sounding much more coherent than he was. I drop my eyes for a moment, then lift them again, taking a deep breath. God, he smells like the outdoors still. Alexsmell, tinged with fall leaves. "I'm tired of *thinking* all this, and not saying any of it, and watching you and just... waiting." I don't specify what I'm waiting for. We both know. The unspoken. The 'ace reporter' always sitting on his shoulder. "Alex, if *you* want, if you're interested... and I know it's complicated, but... I just wanted to make the offer." I trail off. Did that sound weird? "Make myself clear," I try again, which doesn't sound much better. Make it clear that I'm putting myself way out there, attempting to leap that tall building myself and I don't even have the cape, my mind supplies. But I don't say it because it would just confuse him more. And I wouldn't be able to stop the words that are backing up right behind it - because I'm more than happy to leap over the building first, Alex, and I'll hold you close, keep you safe, if you're afraid of the heights, but I need you to see this place. I need you to see what we could be. What we could give each other. Give it a chance. I try to say it with my eyes, since I think it might be a little much for him anyway.

"You're serious," he breathes, incredulously. "But you don't even like me..."

I laugh. I have to. I'm getting all bound up with fucking *emotion* and he's still trying to believe this is happening. Ah, the little ironies of life. "I like who you are these days, Alex," I finally say with a grin. "I like what you're trying to do. Actions always did speak louder than words with me. I may not always agree with the way you do it, but like I said, I think, maybe, I understand better. And as you probably know better than most, I'm particularly well-suited to understand where you used to be." I lift an eyebrow and give him a meaningful look. "I'm hardly pure as the driven snow, *Clark*."

"Walter." His voice is wondering, I can hear it in the way his tongue shapes the syllables. "I... don't know what-" He pauses. For a long time. I can see the struggle on his face. "I'm incredibly flattered," he finally whispers, and I feel a sinking sensation in my chest. That sounds suspiciously like a no. No's always start with the 'I'm flattered' line. Ouch. Damn, I thought I really was prepared for the turn-down possibility.

He swallows hard and starts up again. "But I know- I know you know... know how-" he stumbles to a stop, and suddenly I catch on, realize what's bothering him. I can see it all through his usually blank countenance. Something warm bursts in my chest, trickling through me. My hand lifts and settles against the side of his face again, lightly.

I nod and give him a wry half-smile. "You know I understand. About Lois. It's just like I said first off, but I think you were still too stunned to hear me. I'm not asking for *anything* you don't want to give. I don't say things I don't mean. Not anymore I don't. Believe me, I've got my eyes wide open."

Something changes, melts, in his face. The shadows playing across it already make him impossibly beautiful, but now I'm struck dumb. His entire bearing softens, and his breath catches. His eyes are so huge I don't think I can stand it, I'm going to fall straight into them and never find my way back out. Which would be bad, because it will mean I've been lying to him about not wanting more than he can give. Then he's leaning forward, hesitantly, touching his lips to mine. I don't move, barely breathe. The warmth of his mouth is fleeting on mine, then moving, brushing my cheek, then my mouth again. Skimming so softly I can barely feel it, almost asking permission. I suck in a shaky breath.

"Alex..."

And his mouth settles on mine, lips parting, tongue touching my lips and retreating. My arms wrap around him before I can remember moving, pulling him down to me, crushing him to my chest and twisting, bending over him and sprawling us both on the floor. My tongue enters his mouth and I thrill to *that* sound again, that plaintive half-whimper half-moan. Our legs are tangled and I'm on top of him and I really *have* to slow down. I tear away and lift my head. "I can take this as a yes?"

He stares up at me from the floor, panting, and suddenly a smile breaks across his face. "Yes," he murmurs.

As I start to descend again, his fingers are suddenly there, pressed against my lips, keeping me at bay. I lift an eyebrow at him, then let my tongue and teeth play at his fingers, settling on one and sucking it all the way in. He gasps and his eyes dilate further as they focus on his finger disappearing between my lips. He swallows hard and manages to pull his gaze back to mine with an obvious effort. "Walter..." His rough voice teases at my control.

I draw off his finger slowly. "Yes?"

"Thank you. For saying something. And for understanding." His eyes skate away and return to mine. "About Lois."

The words are so throaty I pause for a moment to check, make sure he's okay. My ardor is suddenly calmed, leashed by the hesitancy crossing his face. I suddenly remember that if we ever got to this point, I wanted to make this slow. And I will. If it kills me. I lower my face to his and kiss him gently, gently... only lips. "You're welcome," I whisper.

Rolling off him, I reach out a hand and pull him up, smiling at his surprise. But I have to get off him or I'm not going to be in control and I want to be in control. I'm not going to use him like a warm body to get my rocks off. Even if he expects it. Especially since he likely does expect it. We may be two imperfect men reaching for each other in equally imperfect and extreme circumstances, but that doesn't mean it can't be real, can't be good. I want to show him just how good it can be. That it can be better than pining after someone who does nothing but use him as a whipping boy.

Getting to my feet and helping him to his, I tug him close, slipping my arms around his waist, under the black jacket. My hands crawl over the softness of the washed cotton shirt, and he sighs as he leans into me, his good arm resting on my shoulder. Tucking his face into my neck, he inhales against me, and I spend long minutes holding him close, stroking his back and enjoying the wet nuzzles at my throat. Finally I let my hands circle back around him, rising to slide his coat from his arms. He always wears the arm when he goes out for a meeting. I'm not entirely sure why, though I have a few guesses.

Tossing his coat to the floor, I lean down and let my tongue press through the rip in his shirt collar. He makes a soft whuff of laughter as my tongue tickles his collarbone. I remember my earlier thoughts of ripping the shirt open, but he probably likes it given how often he wears it, as beat up as it is. Nice way to ruin a mood, Skinner. Shred his favorite shirt. I coax the bottom of the shirt up and feel him freeze when it reaches mid-chest, as expected.

"Too much too soon?" I ask, knowing that might not be the issue, but willing to let it be if he needs it to be.

He pulls back with a little jerk. "Uh..." His head ducks, shaking a quick negative. "No, it's okay, I just-"

I let him go easily, giving him space. "Whatever makes you comfortable, Alex," I stroke his left shoulder lightly. "Whatever you like." He's just thought of it, but I've been waiting for it, so I already have the response ready and rehearsed. "And I'd like you to know that I'd be happy with the shirt off, but do whatever feels better to you."

He blinks at me in the low light for a long moment. He turns to the side, lifting the turtleneck up and over his head with his right hand. Sliding the shirt down his prosthesis, he drops it and I hear the muffled sounds of him working on the straps. I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Two major obstacles down, only... what? Forty-nine or so to go?

He bends down and puts the arm on the pile of his clothing, then straightens, still turned slightly to keep the left side further away from me. I wonder if he even realizes it. He looks back up at me, and I catch my breath. He's gorgeous in the starlight. I look up and see his sky glowing down on us brightly. I face him and smile; he still looks uncertain. Every pause, every uncomfortable moment, is another chance for him to stop and think. Second-guess. Think of reasons this isn't a good idea. The ease I have guessing his thoughts when his face has gone as shuttered as usual surprises me. I realize I know him better than even I thought I did, and the thought makes the pit of my stomach feel warm again.

He's like a shadow standing there in black jeans and boots... his skin paler than ever before. We're all losing color living down here, but where most of us just look pasty, it suits him. The ache in my groin grows insistent, and I can hear my breathing getting uneven. Easy Walter. You're an old man, you can take your time. The tightness of my jeans begs to differ. "Thank *you*, Alex," I murmur, because I can't resist, and I love the way he startles, shaking his head in automatic negation, his eyes immediately dancing away from mine. "Yes," I say before he can get a word out, closing in again, letting one hand skim over his chest, watching his nipples tighten as my thumb circles each one. "Thank you for the trust."

I draw him close and bury my nose in his hair. Let my hands wander as they want, stroking and petting, moving around to squeeze the fullness of an ass I can't get enough of watching on the odd occasion I think I can get away with it. He makes the best sound and, taking it as encouragement, I settle both hands under his butt, cupping and massaging. His hips push closer when my fingers firmly trace the back seam of his jeans up between his cheeks and back down. I'm gratified to feel the hardness of interest against my thigh... I may *understand* about his Mulder-thing, but I really don't want to be a gratitude-pity-fuck.

His fingers unbutton my shirt and tangle in my chest hair. I like the pulling sensation, and like it even better when he trails his fingers down lower and lower until they catch in my waistband. I dip my head to catch his earlobe in my teeth and nip hard. I feel his cock leap against my thigh and smile, satisfied. Sucking on his earlobe brings another soft moan and I release it only to nibble my way down his throat.

I feel like I've finally got my rhythm. Like I can take all the time I need even if my cock is protesting that plan. I spend a small eternity investigating every facet of his throat with lips and tongue, using teeth whenever I want his soft sighs to peak. One arm around his back, my other hand strokes over his hip and groin, working between our bodies to smooth over tight denim, cross over to the flesh of his stomach, play teasingly at his navel and under the edge of his waistband. His hand at my jeans was working to open button and zipper, but I think it may have forgotten its mission, which is fine with me for the moment. I give the bulge at his crotch one more teasing pass and then start on his fly. His hips twitch when my fingers slide inside the opening zipper.

I lead him closer to the blankets with a firm hold in his half-open jeans, finally drawing away from his neck and meeting his eyes. I jerk my head down at the blankets and feel a tiny wave of relief when he looks down and nods. Sinking to the blankets, I tug on his jeans and his legs fold under him until he sprawls beside me. He's looking at me funny, and I realize he's thinking again. I rise onto my knees and strip off my shirt. His eyes widen and he stops thinking. That was more effective than I had even hoped. While I'm up, I finish the job he started, undoing my jeans and pushing them off my hips. His eyes fall to the erection straining my briefs and those eyes go even a bit wider, his mouth falling open.

Typical male I may be, but that's a reaction that definitely does an ego good.

I smile when his eyes lift to mine again, then almost fall over backward when he licks his lips. Shit Alex, don't do that, I'm trying to be the considerate guy here. Possibly he didn't even realize he did it. Sitting back down, I push my jeans the rest of the way off, heeling off my boots as I go. Removing my glasses, I fold them and drop them into one boot... the room's too dark and getting another pair if I step on these will be a pain in the ass.

Turning back, I shift closer to him on the blankets. The floor is cold where my feet rest against it. His eyes are roaming my body and I like the look on his face. Reaching out, I cup his head and pull him in for another slow kiss, gently bearing him backward until he rests full length on the floor.

Leaning over him, I play at his lips and tongue until I get the gasp I'm waiting for, then lick my way down his throat to his chest. I settle over him and run my tongue across each nipple in turn, thoroughly wetting the flesh. Naked, exposed, unlike my own shrouded by hair. Blowing across each raises the flesh in a hard knot and brings another delightful sound. I really hadn't guessed he'd make such wonderful noises. When both nipples are erect, I lower my mouth fully and take one in, sucking firm and steady. His arm snaps up and around my shoulders, hand flattening on the back of my head, chest arching up.

"Fuck!"

Mmm yes, vocal can be good. His voice makes my cock ache, and I settle against his thigh, rubbing up against the warm denim as I switch to the other nipple, sucking it in turn. While I linger over it, my hand creeps up over his hip to work inside his jeans, carefully cupping the warm handful I find. I rest my palm against his hard-on, feeling the gentle throb through the worn cotton of his underwear. His hand shifts to my shoulder and digs in, hard. I leave my hand resting on him, hot and heavy, as I kiss my way to his navel and tongue down the line of hair below it. His cock jumps against my palm when I set my teeth lightly in the flesh of his stomach and suck.

I ease back up to a sitting position and slide my hand out of his pants. Gripping the denim I ease them down and off when he lifts his hips. Down over long thighs, over knees - I pause to kiss the left - over shins and stop at boots. Christ, his legs are endless. I want them wrapped around me in the worst way, but that will be his call and I'm not going to even mention it unless he does. I work his boots off and then pull the jeans over his feet. Once bare, I glide my hand back up between his legs as smoothly as the jeans slid down, resting it on his inner thigh. I look up to find him watching me intently. Thinking again? Tsk.

"What do you want?"

His breathy voice almost hurts to hear, I'm so aroused. It takes me a moment to absorb the words. Oh Alex... what do I want? To make you feel good. To make you forget about Miss Lois, and an impossibly sharp mind with a regrettably sharp tongue to match. Even for a minute. Or an hour. Or a lifetime or two. To make you smile at me a little more often. To have you look at me the way you look at him. To take you to the stars and back, just us.

"To make you stop thinking, just for a little while." I smile to let him know I'm purposely misunderstanding his question. I stretch out beside him and pull him to me, sliding a leg between his and shivering at the delicious sensation of skin on skin, with only barely-there cotton between us. He moves to kiss me and I let my hand find his ass again, tugging and stretching at the fabric, working my hand down his underwear. Warm soft flesh filling my hand and bucking against my thigh and teeth biting at my lips and I'm rolling on top of him before I remember I wasn't going to do that. I try to roll back off and his arm catches me, holds me there.

"Skinner... Walter..." That voice again, and it's going to take me apart. "Will you-" He stops. "Walter, will you fuck me?"

I freeze, trying like hell to figure out if I just heard what I think I heard or if my overheated imagination dreamed it up. I lift my head and stare down at him, unsure how to ask without sounding like a complete asshole.

He lays on his back beneath me, breathing hard, eyes glittering in the candlelight, and meets my stare full on. "You don't have to," he says calmly, between pants. "If that's not what you want."

I blink stupidly at him until I realize he's actually waiting for a response. Like I'd say *no*? He can't honestly think... well, maybe he does. I grope for words, finally managing to rasp, "I'd love to" in lieu of anything more intelligent.

His face relaxes and his eyes slide shut, his mouth tilting in a small smile as he bucks his hips against mine then rubs his ass back into my hand. I work his underwear down off his hips, his squirming against me making it challenging. Before I can get them any further down, his eyes open and his hand reaches for my briefs, pulling them down in the front to release my erection. His sound of appreciation makes me dizzy... or maybe it's his hand on my cock, circling and stroking firmly.

"Alex... wait. Don't..." It'll be over before it starts. I catch his wrist to stop him, then roll back and sit up, reaching for my pants. Digging out the little Vaseline tin I turn to find him blinking at it, then turning his laser beams on me.

"Optimistic?" he offers dryly.

I open my mouth to give some rational reason for carrying Vaseline around, and realize there just *isn't* one. My lips twitch. "Optimistic," I finally agree. I shrug, refusing to let myself get embarrassed. "Besides, would you want me around if I wasn't prepared for every eventuality?" I push my briefs off and reach for his before he can answer, stripping them down those impossible legs. His knees bend and his thighs part and suddenly he's spread out before me, cock and balls on display. I try to remember to breathe.

"Mmmm," he demurs, brows arching. Finally he relents, his eyes sparkling. "Optimism can be good. It can be nice to have an optimist around."

My breath catches and I let the smile itching at my lips take over. How can I not with a response like that? I flip open the Vaseline with my thumb. Setting the little tub on his stomach, I trail one finger through it then use my thumb to smear the jelly across all my fingertips. I glance up and see his eyes focused on my fingers, his tongue just touching his upper lip. I waggle my fingers at him and his eyes narrow before lifting to mine, giving me a 'get the fuck on with it, smartass' glare that I recognize. I love that the quirky humor we've fallen into carries into the sex. I'd have been disappointed if it didn't.

Slipping my greased hand down between his thighs, I work my fingers under his balls and probe firmly. His legs spread wider, relaxing outward and the sighs start up again. I move my free hand to pet his cock then cup his balls. The sighs move to groans. Soft mutters start reaching my ears as my fingers slip inside him, spreading the lube around. I massage his balls and his prostate, and get a deity invocation. That sounds about right. I shift to my knees and move closer to his ass, easing my fingers out and sliding my slippery hand over my cock. "You comfortable?"

His eyes open and focus on me with some difficulty, a hazy expression on that normally closed face. "Yeah, I'm good," he says, and his voice is breathy again, making me shiver. His hand fists in the blankets at his side. I move closer again until my cock is flush with his ass, pressing for entry. Releasing his balls reluctantly I shift my hands to his thighs, lifting them as I rock my hips forward. A deep groan tears free of my throat as I feel his body open to me, my cock inching inside his ass. I'm trying to take it slow but with a toss of his head he rocks his hips up to meet me and I finish the thrust with an uncontrolled jerk.

"Yes!" His voice is unmistakably triumphant.

Alright, so maybe slow wasn't exactly what he was after. I stare down at him stretched before me, body wriggling, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth open and panting in a coyote grin. The feel of his ass tightening and relaxing around me is better than I ever could have imagined. I don't ever want to move, I want to keep this moment, but the urge to thrust slowly turns into an imperative. As his body adjusts to me, his legs suddenly snap up around me, muscles contracting to pull me in tighter, and that's it. With a groan I'm moving, riding into that ass again and again, his moans accompanying every thrust.

After the first rush of heady sensation, I jerk back on the reins again. Dammit, I will control this... I will control myself. The writhe and yelp I get when I slow down are gratifying enough to reinforce the idea. Hands freed, I shift until I can wrap my right hand around his cock, coaxing him back to full erection with easy strokes ending in a gentle squeeze. He bucks into my hand and moans his approval. Forcing back my rising need, I concentrate on making him lose it, thrusting steadily, settling my thumb just under the head of his cock, stimulating the knot of nerves on the underside repeatedly. Before long his body arches and stiffens, his legs contracting around me like vices, and then he's coming over my hand, hot fluid spilling over my fingers and onto his stomach.

The sight, the scent, the sheer feeling of power, rush through me and my hips pick up speed. I release his spent cock as his body collapses, his eyes staring up at me dazed and sated. I lean over him, shifting my position and balancing on my elbows. His legs relax and loll on either side of me but his hips tilt upward, his arm reaching up to circle my shoulders, pull me closer. The look on his face is too much for me, and whatever control I had is burning up fast as his gaze holds mine. His eyes devour me as I fight to last, hold on for just a minute more, make this last, keep this feeling, this flying...

And I'm tipping over the edge and I'm coming and his voice is whispering "Walter" in that *voice*... bliss rockets through me and I fall into it, fall into him. Him.

Better than I ever knew.

I come back to earth with my face pressed against his throat, my body relaxed on his, which can't be comfortable. I shift and roll off, onto my side facing him, arms settling him close, next to me. He draws back, gentle but insistent, and I let him go, stifling my disappointment. He stills on his back a few inches away, rolls his head back and stares up at his night sky.

"You know," his whisper strokes me like the second hand he doesn't have, "I think I know what they mean about that lack of oxygen in outer space now." I don't know that I've ever seen the look that's on his face. "For awhile there I was definitely having trouble breathing." I try hard not to feel too self-satisfied, but that expression... it's a losing battle. I watch him watch his stars and feel incredibly content with my world. Even as I see his expression shift back to that odd surprised look, see him stiffen suddenly, and guess what's going through his mind.

"Fuck... what time- I was supposed to-"

"Relax." I don't move, except to touch his chest lightly, withdrawing my hand. "I canceled the rest of your day. At least for the next couple hours."

His head whips back around and he stares at me, looking for all the world like he can't decide whether to laugh or get mad. Finally he raises an eyebrow and says, "Optimistic?"

I grin, unapologetic. "Optimistic."

"Blind optimism can get you in trouble," he warns, but his silky tone is light.

"So can lack of oxygen," I tease back, and love the way his cheeks flush.

His hand lifts as if he might touch my face, but then it sinks again. His eyes drift over my shoulder and to his ceiling once more, then return to me. His voice when it comes is a velvet brush. "Walter Skinner," he breathes, "you are... stellar."

The catch in my throat won't let me respond. I hear the words; I also hear the meaning. It's more than I ever expected. But he's not looking for a response anyway... his eyes slide closed and he settles with a small sigh. I lay next to him and stare at his stars.

~end~

Ratadder's lyrics, courtesy of PaulaMP:
    
    
    Stellar, by Incubus
    
    Meet me in outer space.
    We could spend the night;
    watch the earth come up.
    I've grown tired of that place;
    won't you come with me?
    We could start again.
    How do you do it?
    Make me feel like I do.
    How do you do it?
    It's better than I ever knew.
    Meet me in outer space.
    I will hold you close, if you're afraid of heights.
    I need you to see this place, it might be the only way
    that I can show you how
    it feels to be inside of you.
    How do you do it?
    Make me feel like I do.
    How do you do it?
    
    
    It's better than I ever knew.
    You are stellar.
    

  
Archived: September 27, 2001 


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